


all these days (or, the one where Emma and Regina are divorced lesbian superhero mommies)

by swatkat



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Divorced Lesbian Mommies, F/F, Son of Batman AU, Swan-Mills Family, reproductive consent issues, superhero au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-06 22:47:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8772439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swatkat/pseuds/swatkat
Summary: “I wasn’t actually out on patrol,” he tells her, still panting. “I followed you here.”“What? Why? ” Emma asks him. There’s a long pause where the boy seems to deflate. It’s like all his swagger disappears, and what’s left is a timid, impossibly young kid. Her heart races and she doesn’t know why.  “My name is Henry Mills,” the kid says eventually. Emma actually does stop breathing then. “I’m your son.”*(Or, how Emma Swan met Henry Mills, and re-connected with his other mother. It's complicated.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mippippippi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mippippippi/gifts).



> 1) CW: Please note that the story's plot involves some **reproductive consent issues**. It is mostly alluded to, without too many graphic details, but it is a central element of the plot nonetheless. 
> 
> Further **cw for torture, and references to child abuse in the background (re. Cora).**
> 
> 2) **Hook and Hood** are present in this story, but by no means as love interests of any sort. 
> 
>  
> 
> 3) For the purpose of this story, Emma does not have magic.
> 
>  
> 
> 4) I'm very grateful to everyone who bore with me over these months, especially everyone in the writing chat (Mari, Mere, Lauren, Emmi, Spark, Bailey) and Maia. My artist, mippipippi, for her absolutely wonderful work, and to Bailey, for being the absolutely best co-mod anyone could ask for.
> 
> 5) This is a very, very lose adaptation of "Son of Batman", for those familiar with the story.

1.

 

This isn’t Emma’s favorite part of the town.

In fact, it is one of her least favorite parts of the town, right up there with the glitzy neighborhoods up in Misthaven West and the fucking golf course. God, she hates the golf course. 

There’s a difference, of course. Misthaven West and all the upscale neighborhoods of Storybrooke stink of money and power. The wide roads and the painted scenery do nothing to mask the blissful privilege of the people who were born to rule. It makes Emma’s feet itch.

No, this place is different. The narrow streets and poorly-lit alleys of Cannery Park are some of the worst Storybrooke has to offer. It’s dank and grimy, home to some of the city’s poorest residents. The streets of Cannery Park reek of smoke and cheap, stale beer; of seven foster homes and hopelessness.

It’s like coming home.

“Storybrooke PD. I’m looking for a Gretel,” she tells the umpteenth person. They hate the likes of her here — the authority her badge wields, the history that weighs it down.

This one’s a boy barely in his teens. He looks at her with startled deer eyes, and begins to stammer, “I, uh, I haven’t, officer. I haven’t done anything!”

“What’s your name, kid?” Emma is gentle, soft in the way she would be to a spooked kitten. There is little scope for introspection when she’s on the job, but the badge, Emma knows, makes a bully of them all. She is no longer naive enough to believe she is fighting for some sort of justice, or that there might be a redemption somewhere in the very end.   

“N-Nick,” he tells her, his bottom lip beginning to quiver like he’s about to cry.

“Nick. Buddy,” she says, with what she hopes passes for a reassuring grin. “I’m looking for a girl called Gretel. About sixteen. Blonde hair. You know anyone like that here?”

The boy looks at Emma with wide, wide eyes and blurts, “I haven’t done anything!” And then he turns his back and takes off like a gunshot.

“ _Hey!_ ” Emma yells. She hates it when they do it.

The kid is _fast_. Too fast, perhaps — superspeed is not exactly Emma’s forte. She swears as she manages to crash into a sweet old lady and knock her over, earning herself the stink-eye from a dozen passers by. The Savior crap doesn’t quite fly in a place like this, where neither vigilante nor the law have brought comfort or justice for anyone at all.

What a waste of an evening.

  


*

  


She stops by at a cart to buy herself a hotdog with a liberal dash of mustard and ketchup. She gets a grumpy, “You done yet, Detective?” from a very drunk Leroy, who is currently handcuffed in the backseat of her car.

He’s lucky she got there in time to intervene, and got elbowed in the ribs in the process. Hell, considering it was a bar brawl at a dive bar in Cannery Park, Leroy’s lucky he’s still alive and breathing.

“ _Shut up_ , Leroy,” Emma says, fucking tired of the Seven Dwarves and their nightly shenanigans.

“Come on, Swan. I need my sleep,” Leroy whines.   

“Third time this week, Leroy,” Emma tells him. “Third fucking time.” 

“Old dwarf needs his drink,” Leroy grumbles. “Your daddy knows that.”

“Yeah, and my _daddy’s_ not the one out here working his butt off, _I_ am.”  

It’s been a sore point between Emma and her father. The Seven Dwarves don’t have it in them to be anything _but_ a nuisance. David’s soft on them, always has been. Some sentimental crap about battles fought together in the mean, mean streets of Storybrooke.  

It is perhaps exhaustion that makes her overlook the small figure crouched near her car, blended perfectly with the shadows. She nearly gets a heart attack when he lands on the hood of her patrol car, his bright red cape a-flutter behind him.

“ _Jesus Christ_ , kid.” And it is a kid. In a costume and cape and a black hood that covers most of his features. The fuck, is that a _sword_ hanging by his side? This fucking city.

“Hi,” the kid grins, and there’s something endearing about the way his face lights up even underneath the black domino mask and the hood. He’s also about _ten_.  

“Care to explain why you’re out so late, kiddo?” Emma says, crossing her arms. She has a policy about kids in capes, and she isn’t gonna reconsider because some cute kid scared the crap out of her and flashed her a disarming smile.  

“I was out on patrol,” the kid says, clearly unmoved by her attempt to intimidate. It’s definitely a sword he’s carrying. 

“Patrol,” Emma says. “Right.” Because the capes think it’s their job to patrol the city, like Storybrooke PD doesn’t exist and there’s no such thing called the law, and they’re getting their sidekicks to do it too. _Kid_ sidekicks.

“Thought I’d come and say hi,” the kid grins again. Emma is _not_ gonna be swayed by a cute smile, even if it makes her heart clench in ways she cannot fathom.

“You really shouldn’t be out here,” she tells him, in all seriousness. “Why don’t you tell me where you live so I can drive you home? Your parents must be getting worried.” 

There’s something unsettling about the way the kid just shrugs. “I can go home on my own,” he says. 

Because he’s a suicidal-kid-in-a-cape, of course, out patrolling the city when he should be asleep in his warm bed like all good kids with homes do. And this one’s either got a mentor or access to some fat wallets, because he has a sword and a couple of pouches on his utility belt. His cape is shiny and his boots sturdy. He looks well-fed.  

“Then how about you do that? Let the police do the patrolling, okay? It’s our job.”

“But I came here to help!” the kid protests. “I saw you talking to Nick before he ran away. He isn’t gonna tell you anything because he’s afraid of cops. Everyone here is.”

Emma sighs. He’s a precocious one, this boy, who appears to think his cape allows him to have Opinions on police matters.

“No,” Emma tells him, firm. “Scram.” She makes a mental note to figure out which of the capes his mentor is at some point, and give them a firm talking to. Maybe Robin Hood’s started recruiting children now that he’s run out of most of not-so-merry men.

The kid’s face falls, visibly. It’s a bit like kicking a puppy.

“Okay,” he says, his voice very small.

Emma watches him as he fishes out a shiny grapple gun from his utility belt. He flashes a small, sad smile at her, and the next thing she knows he’s whooshing up, up and away, leaving Emma gaping at him.

There’s a flutter in her stomach that tells her she might be making a mistake, turning away a kid in need of help. Emma was a cape long enough to know that a kid doesn’t just go around in a mask and a costume unless he needs _something,_  even if that something is just some to snatch his sword away for good. Someone to listen and make him feel like he matters. 

She nearly jumps out of her skin when the kid reappears in a blur of motion, landing nearly on the hood of the car yet again. “Wait,” he says, gasping for breath. “We have to talk.” 

“I thought you were going home, kid.” 

“I wasn’t actually out on patrol,” he tells her, still panting. “I followed you here.”

“What? _Why?_ ” Emma asks him. There’s a long pause where the boy seems to deflate. It’s like all his swagger disappears, and what’s left is a timid, impossibly young kid. Her heart races and she doesn’t know why.  

“My name is Henry Mills,” the kid says eventually. Emma actually does stop breathing then. “I’m your son.”

The domino mask peels open to reveal a pair of bright, bright eyes — _Henry_ , last name _Mills_ —

“I’d like to be your apprentice,” Henry announces.

 

*

 

Consider this scene:

Detective Emma Swan of Storybrooke PD is on the hood of her squad car, her back against the windshield and legs stretched out. In her hand is a cup of coffee that she’s just bought.

Next to her, also on the hood, is a small boy in a brightly colored costume and a flowing red cape, a dashing young super in the making. The boy is drinking orange juice. Emma _bought_ him orange juice, because the boy said he was thirsty and could the Detective buy him some orange juice please?

Leroy, the eldest of the so-called Seven Dwarves and infamous drunk, is in the backseat of Emma Swan’s car, handcuffed and fast asleep. He is, in fact, snoring.

It says something about Storybrooke’s cape problem that no one finds the scene anything out of ordinary. No one stops to spare them a second glance. The people of Cannery Park have more pressing problems than a lone cop and a baby super, looking for all the world like they’re having a pleasant time.

Emma Swan is not _,_ in fact, having a pleasant time.

The kid is cute and insistent. There’s something breathtakingly familiar about the set of his jaw, the way he wrinkles his nose when Emma tells him for what feels like the millionth time, “I _don’t_ have a son, kiddo. Or a daughter. Or any children at all.” She’s been through a lot of weird shit, but nothing in her life so far has prepared her for this conversation with a boy this determined. She clutches the coffee cup like a lifeline. “I’d remember having one if I did.”

“Yes you do,” Henry insists, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I’m your son. I’m sorry I couldn’t meet you earlier. But it’s okay because we found each other now, and I _really_ want to be your apprentice and help you with your investigation.” He says all of this in one breath, the entire speech ending in a near breathless squeak.  

Once upon a time, Emma Swan knew a man called Henry Mills. He had grey hair and kind eyes, and skin a few shades browner than this kid seated next to her.

She’d met him only once — in person, that is. But she did spend a considerable amount of time dedicated to climbing in and out of one particular window (with the white window panes and yellow curtains she sees in her dreams sometimes) of his house at Brooke Colony.

“Kid,” Emma says, not quite able to say his name. If that _is_ his name. “Where are you parents?” He doesn’t sound like he’s lying.

 _Henry_. Last name _Mills_. Her throat is dry and her mouth tastes like cotton — although that might just be the foul coffee she consumed.

Henry doesn’t seem very enthused. “Mom’s at home, I guess,” he says with a shrug. 

Emma does not ask for his mother’s name. 

She’s had enough of this _babble_ , whatever it is that the kid is trying to sell. She slides down the hood, a little unsteady on her feet, and says, “Get in the car. I’m driving you home and taking you to your mother. She must be worried sick by now.”

“No!” Henry says, aghast. “I don’t wanna go _home_!”

“And why is that?” Emma demands. 

Henry looks around dramatically, as though to check if they have an audience. And then he lowers his voice and tells her in a conspiratorial whisper, “My mom is _evil_ , Emma. That’s why I had to find you. I want to be _your_ apprentice, because I know _you’re_ good.”    

Emma is well and truly speechless at that declaration. 

“You’re the Swan,” Henry tells her, triumphant. “I know _all_ about you.”

“I don’t do that anymore, kid,” Emma says with a sigh. “And if your mother is who I think she is, she’s not... evil.” The old defence springs to her lips unbidden, and she’s surprised by how much she means it.

The gossip rags of Storybrooke had dubbed her the ‘Evil Queen’, once. Regina Mills was never quite that, however. Regina was always so much _more_.

Once she was Cora Mills’ henchwoman slash heir apparent, terrorizing Storybrooke’s volatile underworld. Young Emma Swan loathed her at first sight and was drawn by her dark, dark eyes. She chose her as the Swan’s nemesis, determined to prove herself a worthwhile protector of the city by subduing this menace, once and for all. 

In the very end, Regina Mills was a hero, though neither of them had any use for such words. 

“But —” Henry opens his mouth to protest. 

“No,” Emma interrupts, trying to keep her voice from being too harsh. Whatever might be up with Henry and his theories, he’s still just a boy. “I’ll drive you home. And you’ll take off this cape and this sword and never try to do this again, okay?”

“Emma, _please_ —” The kid entreats. He looks like he’s about to cry.

“Just get in the car, kiddo,” Emma says, just as plaintive.

“I thought maybe you’d like to meet me,” Henry says, with a suspiciously wet smile. “I guess I was wrong.”

Which. _Great_ . In a short span of an hour or so, Emma has managed to make _two_ children cry.

The grapple gun is out again, before Emma can get in another word. And so Henry Mills disappears into the night, leaving Emma in the company of a million unanswered questions, and a drunk dwarf sleeping in the backseat of her car.

  


*

  


The cave is a _mess_.

There’s dust and cobwebs _everywhere_ , from the trophy cabinets to The Librarian™’s panels. Some of the glass in the trophy cabinets is cracked and chipped in places. There’s rat droppings all over the floor. She should really clean it more often, Emma thinks as she sneezes _yet_ _again._  

She hasn’t felt like coming in here in a long time.

She set it up with the help of her newfound birth-parents, eager to support their do-gooding hero of a daughter. They paid for every damn thing, from a badass pair of boots to her shiny new toys, which was quite an upgrade from her poorly stitched-together costume days. It was the sort of fairytale twist Emma Swan had learned not to have faith in.

Maybe, said a little voice at the back of her head, they were buying her affection, to make up for the guilt of the lost years, of one failed adoption and seven foster homes, of six months in the juvie and scars that will never quite heal.

But all David had done was hand her a sword, a well-worn, battered thing with a razor sharp blade. “Forged in dragon fire,” he’d said, solemn. “She was my companion for many years, even before I’d met your mother. And now she can be yours, if you want her.” Emma didn’t believe in fairytales but she wanted, oh, she _wanted_.

The sword hangs in a dusty trophy cabinet along with the rest of the Swan’s costumes. Emma’s not nostalgic, no, but there’s a comfort to it, like meeting an old friend after a long, long time.

The cave was her playground until it no longer made sense to have one.   

She slides her fingers over the buttons of the Librarian™’s console, catching years of dust and neglect.

  


*  

  


It takes her a while to get the place in working order. And by that she means she dusts the Librarian™’s console and panels and hopes the rats haven’t chewed up the wires beyond repair. Her old chair creaks in protest when Emma plants herself on it.

The system is still functional, much to Emma’s relief. It might just be Emma’s fertile imagination, but Belle actually sounds surprised when she has it up and running. She’s always suspected the AI is more intelligent than she lets on. Which isn’t creepy at all, nope.

“How may I be of assistance, Emma Swan?” the AI says in greeting, familiar. Her voice echoes in the cave, as though coming back to life.

“Hi to you too, Belle,” Emma says, fond in spite of herself. “I need you to look something up.”

“At your service,” Belle says.

Emma takes a deep breath. “I need information on Regina Mills. Whatever you can dig up from the past year or so.”

Her heartbeat grows uneven in her chest. Which is ridiculous, because it’s been _years_ and she’s just… investigating.

“Of course,” Belle says, and maybe she sounds a tad sceptical.

At least she’s still as efficient as ever. It gets harder to affect distance as the data begins to pile up, Belle throwing up image after image of a woman she hasn’t seen or thought about — much, a couple of times a day at best — in years, except perhaps in the agonized dreams she’ll never acknowledge dreaming.

There’s Regina Mills in all her glory, resplendent in a deep red gown at the Storybrooke Town Hall, on her way to a meeting with the Mayor. Her hair is shorter. Regina, schmoozing with Storybrooke’s high and mighty. Regina all grown up and breathtaking and _here_ , _really_ here.

It’s not that Emma didn’t _know_ of her re-emergence in Storybrooke after a decade of disappearance. Emma’s cop, not a hermit. It’s her job to know these things.  

Seeing her now — out and about in Storybrooke, and making powerful friends, from the looks of it — makes it real somehow, and Emma’s not sure what she’s going to do with that. She will need time to process. 

Time, and alcohol, probably. Copious amounts of alcohol. 

“Do the records mention her family, Belle?” Emma says, hating the slight unsteadiness in her voice.

“Yes,” Belle says. The screen flashes with familiar images of Regina’s parents:

 

_Mother: Cora Mills. Status: Deceased._

_Father: Henry Mills. Status: Deceased._

 

Emma allows herself a moment of grief for the man she barely knew, if only because of the soft smile that played on his daughter’s lips every time she spoke of him to Emma.

“What about children?” Emma asks, fidgeting on the ancient chair until it nearly tips over. “Or a partner?”   

“There are no records of Regina Mills being in a civil partnership or having children,” Belle says, matter of fact.

She thinks of the boy with bright, hopeful eyes, and an impossible claim of being _her son_. Henry, last name Mills.

“Dig deeper,” Emma says sharply. “Go further back.”  


*

 

The next morning, much to her parents’ surprise, Emma shows up for breakfast.

Emma’s a bit of a slacker when it comes to what her parents call family time. They don’t press — they never have. _Probably out of guilt_ , says a nasty little voice at the back of her head. But Emma knows better than to pay attention to that voice by now.  

She was up until the early hours of the morning, poring over every little nugget of information Belle threw up, suddenly ravenous to know more.

There was no mention of a Henry Mills, Jr. Emma didn’t think there would be.

“Did you guys know Regina’s back in town?” Emma tries to keep her voice casual, but she already knows it’s a lost cause. She takes another sip of coffee and fixes her glance at the morning paper.

“Regina Mills?” her father says, furrowing his brow. “Yeah, of course. Ran into her at a couple of events. Last month, in fact.”

“She was at the White Gala, darling,” says her mother. “We spoke briefly.”

Emma hears the gentle reproach in her mother’s voice and tries not to wince. She blew off the gala for a last minute ‘emergency’, and spent the evening drinking beer with Mulan instead.

Emma is resigned to being a source of eternal disappointment for her mother. 

“Haven’t you been in touch?” her mother says, and okay, this is _not_ a line of conversation she’s willing to pursue at the moment. Or ever. “You two used to be such good friends.” Her mother’s smile turns wistful.

She’s never quite sure if Snow and David really think they were just friends, or if it’s their way of expressing disappointment about Emma’s love life (or lack thereof).

“Nah,” Emma shrugs, turning her attention to the pancakes on her plate.  

 

*

  


That evening, Emma’s back at Cannery Park, in search of the elusive Gretel. There’s a new drug in the streets of Storybrooke, some kind of weird superhero juice that powers you up for an hour or so and leaves you craving for more until you’re lost. They’ve taken to calling it Fairy Dust, but there’s nothing magical about this crap, no — it’s poison, pure and simple.

Three kids are in rehab — all under eighteen, all from the streets. The numbers keep rising. There are reports of vandalism and superpowered mayhem every other day, and the PD’s running ragged trying to contain it. 

It takes a special brand of evil to screw with desperate children, making them dream of power. It makes Emma’s skin crawl.  

She isn’t surprised when the small hooded figure lands next to her. Henry is stubborn and curious, this much she has learned. She knows the thrill of wearing a cape and sneaking out at night, the _allure_ of being a hero.

“Hi, Emma!” he says, happy to see her in a way few people are. “Still looking for Gretel?” 

Emma sighs. “You should be in bed, kid,” she says. Maybe she’s a hypocrite. She wasn’t much older when she stitched up a costume and ran.   

It just doesn’t seem right that he might to learn the hard way, this boy who is still a _child_. The costume that was her freedom became her cage, her sword a shackle. Emma was glad to leave it behind when she did, happy to trade it for the anonymity of the uniform.

“I’ve been investigating,” he says, falling in step beside her. Emma finds herself slowing without meaning to, drawn to him in spite of herself.

“You’re a _kid_ ,” Emma tells him, again. “You shouldn’t be doing anything but doing your homework and _sleeping_ , so you can be up for school again tomorrow.”

“Where do you think I did most of my investigation?” Henry says. Emma notes the obstinate set of his jaw, the way he raises an eyebrow as though in imitation of someone much older. “I could help you. I know a lot of kids.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Emma says. She doesn’t think his mother would appreciate it very much. She doesn’t even know who she might be anymore, but it is inconceivable that Regina should have changed so much.

“But I’m good at this,” Henry protests. The pout, too, is a familiar one. It fills her with a sentiment she doesn’t quite comprehend, this desire to _protect_. The boy is a Mills through and through, even if she doesn’t have the records to confirm.      

“I’m sure you are,” Emma says, soothing, “but this is not a job for kids.” It’s just that she feels responsible. “Does your mother know you’re here, Henry?”     

“I told you,” Henry says. “You _are_ my mom.” 

“Not this again,” Emma shakes her head. “I meant your actual mom.” 

“But—” 

“Does she know you’re here?” Emma cuts him off swiftly when he attempts to protest once more. “Because I’m gonna have to talk to her.” 

She knows it’s going to happen, even as she speaks the words. Somehow she is always in pursuit, drawn to the girl behind the mask. 

Henry, on the other hand, recoils as though stung. His tone is one of being utterly betrayed when he says, “You can’t talk to my mom, Emma! I told you, she’s evil! You _have_ to train me!”    

He looks at her with the absolute faith of a boy looking up at a _hero_ , a character who doesn’t _exist_. Never has.  

“What makes you think she’s evil, Henry?” Emma says, suddenly weary. She wants to sit down. 

“Isn’t that why you defeated her and banished her from Storybrooke?” Henry challenges. 

“I —” Emma can’t help but splutter. Of all the outrageous things Henry has claimed so far, this is the one that _gets_ to her. In the very end, and Emma can say this because Emma was _there_ , Regina was a hero, making the hardest choices of all. “That’s not what happened at all. God, Henry, who told you that?”  

“I researched.” Henry stands his ground. “Why won’t you train me?” 

Emma combs her hand through her hair in frustration. “Can you cut it with the training crap? I don’t do that superhero stuff anymore.”

His face falls in a reprise of their previous encounter. “I was hoping that when I find you, things would change. That the final battle would begin.” 

“I’m not fighting any battles, kid,” Emma tells him. “And neither are you.” 

His exits are as dramatic as his mother’s, Emma thinks as she watches him disappear into the darkness. She has no idea what she’s going to say, but she has to talk to Regina.   


*


	2. Chapter 2

2.

 

The new MillsCorp building stands tall and imposing at the very heart of Storybrooke’s business district. It’s a building with a purpose, sleek and gleaming, aspiring to touch the sky.   

There was a time when the Mills name evoked nothing but repulsion in Storybrooke, a city traumatized by the Queen of Hearts and her malevolence. No one anticipated the turnaround a few years down the line. They certainly didn’t anticipate Marian Álvarez or her iron determination. 

Emma’s met her a few times at her mother’s events, drawn to her poise and her grace. She’s wondered how this woman, who was once that idiot Hood’s shadow, became so adept in this when Emma still feels like she smells of the streets every time she’s at some glamorous party. She’s wondered how — _if_ — Regina knew when she laid such a burden on this woman’s very capable shoulders. She must have, because MillsCorp survived and _thrived_.  

And now here she is, standing in the lobby of their shiny new building and arguing with a security guard determined to not let her in. He’s built like a tank, this one, hired, no doubt, to inspire fear. The nameplate on his chest reads ‘Anton’. 

“I need to see your boss, Anton,” Emma says with a winning smile. “Important police business. I’m sure you understand.” Emma is actually off-duty, but she’s not above arm-twisting when it comes to something like this. She needs to talk to Regina.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Anton says. “You’ll have to ask for an appointment.”

Emma stands her ground. “I need to see Regina Mills. So you could either let me in or I’ll walk in myself.” She flashes her badge at him, to no effect.

“I can’t let you do that, Detective,” he tells her, firm.   

Emma tries to walk past him and runs squarely into a solid mass of flesh. They’re beginning to attract curious looks, what with the loud argument and the scene she’s currently making. 

“Come on, buddy,” Emma wheedles, looking up at the blank face of the man currently holding her by the lapels of her jacket. “You know I can have you booked for obstructing police business?” She could make even more of scene if she chose to, but Emma kinda hopes it doesn’t come to that. Storybrooke has forgiven Emma many things, including that time she was under a dark curse, dyed her hair white, and tried to kill her beloved parents. She tries to keep her head down most of the time. An Incident at MillsCorp would be the absolute opposite of that. 

“If you don’t leave now, ma’am, I’m going to have to have you evicted,” Anton says. 

“There’ll be no need of that,” says a voice behind him, startling them both. Anton lets go of her lapels, and Emma, well, she gapes. 

There’s no mistaking the owner of that voice.

  
  
  


Images don’t do justice to the reality of Regina in flesh and blood. They never have. In person, Regina is always _more_ , larger than life through sheer force of personality. And she’s here now, a vision in her fitted grey dress and her bright red lips.

“Hi,” Emma says with what is probably a stupid smile. She’d planned a speech this morning, one where she’s suave and no-nonsense, not this bumbling mess reduced to a lovesick girl at first sight. 

“Miss Swan,” Regina says, her voice cool. Her expression gives nothing away. 

It’s the first thing they’ve said to each other in a decade, but the formality of the address stings. Regina has given her no indication that she wishes for an intrusion, that she is not perfectly happy living her life in a world where Emma has no place. But Emma has always wanted —

Emma has always  _wanted_.

They’ve been through too much together to not mean anything to each other.

“It’s Detective,” she tells her, trying to keep her tone just as formal. The slight crack in her voice and her flushed cheeks, in all likelihood, have not helped her cause. “Detective Swan.” She doesn’t know why she has the urge to fidget, and shoves her hands in her pockets instead.  

“I see.” Regina says, pursing her lips. “Care to explain why you were harassing my employee, Detective Swan?”

“I, uh, wanted to discuss something,” Emma says. “Maybe not in the middle of the lobby, though?” She makes a brief hand gesture at Anton, who remains impassive.

“Very well” is all Regina says.    

  


*

 

The elevator ride up to Regina’s office is silent and awkward. The woman beside her could very well be a stranger. 

She gets a sceptical glance from a lean young man who’s probably the PA. “I’ll be in a private meeting, Billy. See that I am not disturbed,” Regina tells him. There’s an air of quiet authority about her, a certain menace — not quite Cora’s calculated malevolence but distant and chilling in its own way.

“Sit, Detective,” Regina says, pointing her to a couch. The office is impeccably arranged, shades of white and grey in stark contrast to the wallpaper and its shock of black patterns. “How would you like a glass of the best apple cider you’ve ever tasted?”

“Got anything stronger?” Emma can’t help the smile that threatens to break at the corner of her lips, and gets a quirked eyebrow in return. 

Her movements are fluid, suffused with lethal grace. This person, this Regina of flesh and blood, is a woman, a mother herself — there’s no trace of the girl Emma once knew and lost, except perhaps in the pale scar above her lips.

“Now,” Regina says, after Emma’s taken a sip out of the tumbler in her hand, “How may I help the Storybrooke PD today?” 

“I’m not here on police business,” she tells Regina, suddenly tongue-tied.   

“Is this a social call, Detective?” Regina’s voice is outright sultry. “I would have expected one sooner.” Emma is _not_ to be blamed for the way her cheeks inflame in response, or the way her lips stumble over every other word.

“I… I didn’t think that— I mean. I’m sorry I just showed up.” Emma has no memory of the words she was supposed to say. 

Regina just looks at her, her face inscrutable. “This is… I mean, okay,” Emma says, wiping a sweaty palm on her jeans. “This is about your son, Henry.”

Her eyes grow wide as though in surprise. It’s a confirmation as good as anything Belle could dig up for her. “What about my son?” Regina says, cold. 

Emma swallows. She goes with the template that comes with years on her job, a simple, “Are you— Has he been having any trouble in school of late?”

Regina sucks in a sharp breath. “My son is a diligent student, Miss Swan,” she says slowly. The misnomer is almost certainly deliberate. “Is there a reason behind this sudden intrusion into our lives?” 

Emma stiffens. It’s an expert blow. “Here’s the thing, Regina,” she says, suddenly weary. “I’ve met with this boy two nights in a row now — brown hair, about this tall? He has this costume and a sword. He told me his name is Henry Mills.” 

Regina absorbs the information with an unnatural poise. “I see,” she says, clasping her hands in front of her. “And what did you tell him?” 

“I told him to go home, what else? I guess I thought you should know,” Emma says. 

“Well, I’m glad you came to report this matter to me, Detective.” Regina smiles at her, a practised politician’s smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’ll talk to Henry. As his mother, I apologize for the inconvenience he may have caused.” 

There’s enough menace in that smile for Emma to reconsider her next words. She figures she might as well say it. “Henry also said a couple of other things I wanted to discuss,” she says. “If that’s okay.”

There’s a faint crease in Regina’s forehead, but her face remains impassive. “Do share, Miss Swan,” Regina says expectantly.

“He said he wanted to be my apprentice,” Emma says slowly. “I didn’t encourage him. I mean, I don’t do that stuff anymore anyway. And I’m not okay with kids in capes, obviously. Kids tend to get all sorts of ideas in their head, you know, stuff that isn’t necessarily true —” 

“Is there a point to your rambling?” Regina interrupts, visibly impatient.

Emma licks her lips. There’s no easy way to say this. “He said that he was my son. I don’t know what he meant by that, but he was quite emphatic.” 

Regina looks as though she’s been dealt a body blow. She looks at Emma in slack-jawed disbelief, and then, anger. “Get out,” she says, rising to her feet. 

“Regina, what—” 

“We’ve talked enough, Emma. Now get out,” she says, eyes flashing. Still got that temper all right.

“Seriously?” Emma says.

She gets it, she does, no decent parent is going to take the news of her ten year old running around at night in a costume or making delusional claims about his parentage particularly well. But Regina has a unique gift of getting under her skin, and a part of Emma just _bristles_. She didn’t come here to _argue_ , but old habits die hard. Emma can feel her hackles rise as Regina says, “Leave, Miss Swan. And if I see you near _my son_ one more time, I’m going to take out a restraining order.”

Regina should know by now that Emma does not respond well to threats. Or maybe she was counting on it. “I’m not the one seeking him out, Regina,” Emma says, taking a step closer to Regina until they’re almost nose to nose. “I didn’t know he _existed_ until he _came_ to me. If anything, _I_ should be asking _you_ why you allow your ten year old to wander around at night in a cape and a costume.”

It’s a low blow, Emma knows. Knows it’s had its intended effect as Regina clenches her jaw. Her eyes grow stormy, furious. Emma can’t look away.

“My son,” Regina grits out, “has been having trouble coping with some changes in his life of late. It seems he has decided that Storybrooke’s very own Savior is his new role model. If only he knew.” The last bit is mocking. Emma feels herself clenching her fists automatically — a sure sign of losing her temper completely.

She didn’t come here to pick a fight. There’s nothing to fight over. Whatever’s between them is history, and there isn’t a thing Emma can do to undo the past.

“Look,” she says, raising her hands in a gesture that she hopes is pacifying. “I didn’t come here to fight. I just felt that — he’s a cute kid.” She shrugs helplessly. “I don’t want him to get into trouble.” Regina might understand that, at least.

“Have you said everything you came here to say?” Regina says after a moment of tense silence.

Emma has not. She doesn’t think this is a good time to bring up the kid’s obsession with a final battle, though, or his insistence that his mom is _evil_.

“I’ll see myself out,” Emma tells her, resigned. Regina does not call her back.

 

 

Anton the giant security guard insists on escorting her all the way out to building’s main exit. Emma doesn’t have the heart to argue, yet again. 

The last time she saw Regina was a few days after Cora. She’d gazed at Emma with blank, hollow eyes until Emma had climbed into the bed with her. She’d allowed every gesture of comfort, however inept; allowed Emma to hold her until she was no longer trembling. Emma had kissed her, then, pouring in the tumult of emotions she did not have words for.

Back then, she’d been fool enough to believe it was a new beginning to their story.

  


*

  
  


Emma’s moody the next day, so much so that everyone gives her a wide berth when she makes her way to the station. She heads straight for the coffee machine, without so much as a polite hello at any of her co-workers. It’s not like they keep her around for her manners.

The file on her desk does nothing to improve her mood. Fairy Dust strikes again. One more kid hopped up on crazy juice caught peddling in the streets, this time near Brookeville. It took Robin Hood  (who retired halfway through after running out of arrows), six armed policemen, and an hour for the drug to wear out before he could be properly restrained and taken to the juvenile detention center. Some property damage, furious shop owners at Downing Street, the usual.

It would help if she could focus, but her mind wanders to young Henry Mills, with his lost eyes and earnest smile and a cape he has no business wearing. And, of course, his mother.

The Librarian™ is a very efficient system, if somewhat outdated. She’s had the system running 24 x 7, scouring through the records. There isn’t a single trail that leads back to Henry’s birth. It’s almost as though it’s been carefully concealed.

And Emma, damn her, Emma is (losing her mind, officially going senile) maybe beginning to believe that there’s something here.

She isn’t lonely or pathetic enough to just claim this boy as her son, evidence be damned, but there’s something about the kid’s fervent belief. Her built-in lie detector isn’t foolproof, exactly, but the kid wasn’t lying.

She scowls at the file in front of her to get the image of Regina out of her mind.

“You’ve been glaring at that file for an hour now, Swan. People are starting to get nervous.” Mulan, bless her, has brought coffee and donuts. It’s like she _knew_ Emma needed them.

Mulan’s the only one in these parts who knows Emma from back when she was still just the Swan, trouble-prone vigilante with a bad attitude. “People can go screw themselves,” Emma mutters, speaking through a mouthful of donut. “I’ve got a case to solve.”

“Sure your mood has nothing to do with a certain altercation yesterday?” Mulan says with a friendly nudge.

“How do you even know about that?” Emma hisses, trying to keep her voice low so they’re not overheard. She did make a scene with the guard in the MillsCorp lobby, but it wasn’t _that bad_ . There was only some aggression. Absolutely no bloodshed. Unless there were paparazzi around or something, which is entirely possible given Storybrooke’s obsession with Emma’s lineage and the whole Savior story — wait, is it on Twitter again? Are there _memes_?

Emma doesn’t think she could deal with another round  of CAPSLOCK SWAN memes at the moment.  

“I’m a detective,” Mulan says with a shrug. “I have my ways.” 

“Mulan.” 

“Fine,” Mulan relents. “I might know someone who’s Her Majesty’s underling.” 

“Look, I don’t know what you’ve heard, but it was… just a chat,” Emma says. “We talked. That’s all that’s there to it.” 

“Whatever you say, Swan,” Mulan says, easy. She knows better than to push Emma.

  
  


*

  


It’s chaos at Westtown by the time Emma and Mulan arrive with reinforcements.

Mulgrove Street looks like it’s been through a minor hurricane. The property damage alone will have David apologizing to the Mayor for a month. There are police cars and ambulances, not to mention a horde of gawking civilians recording every failed attempt on the part of the police to contain the angry boy pumped up on Fairy Dust. 

“The tranq bullets keep bouncing off his skin!” says a harried Ali, trying to get a decent shot at the ten-foot tall figure and failing.   

“No injuries,” Mulan barks. “Captain’s orders, remember!” 

“At this rate there’ll be casualties on our end,” Ali snaps back. The boy smashes his fist through another shop window, as though to prove his point. There’s glass flying in every direction, and they duck and run for cover behind the police cars.

“Are the freeze guns charged?” Emma says, panting. 

“There are only two,” Ali says. “Jas is trying to get them to work.” Working for the Storybrooke PD is a bit like superheroing on a shoestring budget. All the supervillains, zero credit, and none of their equipment actually work. 

An arrow whizzes past them, bursting into fire as it pierces the kid’s skin. He looks at it quizzically, and plucks it out without batting an eyelash. 

“Don’t tell me Hood’s at it again,” Emma groans. Robin Hood is nothing if not an earnest do-gooder, but he tends be more of a hindrance than help. Emma wishes there was some sort of a law in Storybrooke that outlawed this sort of _incompetent_ vigilantism.

“I’m not gonna rescue him if he lands in trouble,” Ali says. They watch as two more arrows launch themselves towards the boy. He bats them away like flies, narrowing his eyes in annoyance. Uh oh.

“Jasmine, the guns,” Ali shouts, no doubt sensing the same thing that has Emma on her feet again. The kid’s spotted the source of the annoying arrows, and if they don’t intervene now, Robin Hood is toast.

“Nearly there,” Jasmine says, sounding as frustrated as the rest of them feel. Emma figures she can distract him long enough for Hood to make himself scarce, and then they’ll… deal. Somehow. Maybe the drug will wear off.

“Not again, Swan,” Emma hears Mulan groan, as she stands squarely in front of the boy and waves her hands in air to grab his attention. 

“Hey! Over here!” 

A green fist comes down at her, intent on squashing her like a bug. Emma ducks away and the fist lands on the sidewalk, cracking the cement.

“Not very smart, are you?” Emma quips, unable to help herself. He doesn’t _need_ anymore provocation.  

There’s an answering roar, and then there’s a set of fat green fingers closing in around her, holding her in a vice grip. He picks her up like she weighs nothing, and inspects her with the abstract fascination of a child with a plaything. He _is_ a child, angry and lost, and Emma can’t help the wave of compassion that washes through her even as she struggles to break free of his grip. “Now would be the time you fired, guys,” she shouts, a little choked. 

“Hold on, Swan,” she thinks she hears Mulan say. 

The sudden blast of ice is enough to make Emma shiver. But it’s slackened his grip, and Emma takes the opportunity to climb on to his hand and jump, landing on top of a squad car with a thud. 

She watches Mulan and Jasmine fire the freeze guns in tandem until the boy is a giant ten-foot icicle. By the time he thaws, he’ll be back to normal and shipped to the White Juvenile Rehabilitation Center. 

“Nice one,” says Ali, offering her a hand that she willingly takes. Her knees aren’t what they used to be. It _hurts_. “You okay, Detective?”  

“I’m fine,” Emma says. She’s ache-y but she’ll live, and that’s pretty much what matters. 

“That was stupid, Swan,” Mulan tells her, but she’s smiling. She even lets Emma high-five her, and Emma takes that as a win.

  


*

  


In the melee that follows, flashing cameras and curious citizens and the clean-up crew figuring out a way to tow the ten-foot tall block of ice away to safety, Emma almost misses her small shadow, perched innocuously on a moderately damaged shop window. 

“That was super brave of you,” he tells her, the domino mask doing nothing to conceal the awe written all over his face. There’s something about him that gets Emma all tangled up inside. Maybe it’s just the starry-eyed worship. Emma should know better by now.

“Just my job, Henry,” she tells him with a smile. It’s been a couple weeks since she last saw him. She’d assumed Regina had given him a talking to and put an end to his nighttime adventures. She can’t say she hadn’t been relieved, even if a part of her missed his little face.

“You’re _really_ good,” Henry says. “Did you guys find Gretel?” 

“Not yet, I’m afraid. You could maybe consider police work as a career option, kiddo,” Emma says, if only because the thought of Regina hearing of it amuses her to no end. And besides, it might get him to give up on his costume for good, which is never a bad idea. “You could get a freeze gun of your own at some point.” 

The delighted smile on his face is enough to make her heart melt. An idea strikes her, then, and she’s blurted the words even before she’s had time to think about it. “Do you like hot dogs, Henry?” she tells him.

It’s a terrible idea, hanging out with him. She doesn’t want to lead him on.   

“I’ve eaten,” Henry admits, sheepish. “But can I please get ice cream?”

  


*

 

Consider this scene:

Detective Emma Swan of Storybrooke PD is on the hood of her squad car, her back against the windshield and legs stretched out. She’s scarfing down a hot dog, because all that running around and being almost squeezed to death by an angry green boy has made her hungry, okay?

Next to her, also on the hood, is a small boy in a brightly colored costume and a flowing red cape, a dashing young super in the making. The boy is eating ice cream. Emma _bought_ him ice cream, although it’s probably a bad idea, giving him sugar at this hour.  

It says something about Storybrooke’s cape problem that no one finds the scene anything out of ordinary. No one stops to spare them a second glance. The people of Storybrooke have more pressing problems than a lone cop and a baby super, looking for all the world like they’re having a pleasant time. 

Emma is, in fact, having a fairly pleasant time. Henry’s good company, even when he says things like, “I’ve been thinking about a good name for myself. Like Iron Justice. Or Ravager. What do you think?” He’s got ice cream smeared around his mouth and is looking at Emma with hopeful eyes. 

“Why do you wanna be a superhero, Henry?” Emma asks, in all seriousness. There’s a lot going on in that little head of his. If Emma could understand him somehow, maybe she could help. Try and talk to his mother again, unwelcome though it would be.   

“Because I want to fight for _good_. Like you,” Henry says simply. 

Emma feels a wave of despair wash over her. At fourteen, Emma Swan wasn’t fighting for good or for justice or anything of that sort. She was fighting because she was _angry_ , and because it gave her something to do. She stitched together a cape with inexpert hands and ran around Storybrooke at night, feeling invulnerable.  

She remembers Regina’s words from the other day: _if only he knew_.  

“You don’t have to be in a cape to fight for good, Henry,” Emma tries to explain. “What would your mom say if she found out you’re not in your bed right now? Do you know how worried she will be?”   

Of course, Henry _also_ says things like: “ _You’re_ my mom.” His face takes on a mulish expression, so familiar she nearly weeps.  

“Kid,” Emma tries again. “I talked to your mother. She loves you very much and she’s worried about you.” It was there in her eyes, in her impotent rage when she asked Emma to get out of her office so she could be alone, and figure out a way to deal with her son. 

“You talked to my _mom_?” Henry looks at her in utter betrayal.  

“I had to, Henry,” Emma tries to explain, but Henry’s already sliding off the hood. Emma scrambles after him, hoping to catch him before he fishes out that grapple gun of his again. “Henry, talk to me, _please._ ” 

“I thought I could _trust_ you,” Henry accuses. It’s crushing, is what it is. Which is quite amazing considering it’s coming from a truant ten-year old.  

Emma is rescued from fumbling through an attempt to placate the kid when he fixes his gaze behind her shoulder and says, “Mom?”, his eyes growing wide.

Emma closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. This is a disaster. 

“Come here, Henry,” Regina says, hands folded in front her.  Henry stands his ground, stubborn. 

Regina brushes past Emma without so much as an acknowledgment. In her sharp power suit and pants, she’s dressed more for a corporate takeover than a fraught conversation with her runaway son in a grimy, neon-lit alley. Her heels click on the asphalt. 

She walks up to Henry and bends until they’re eye to eye, reaches out with a hand to touch his chin. “Henry,” Regina says, her voice soft, “it’s time to put an end to this game of yours. I know you’ve been unhappy with the changes in our life of late, but I promise things will be better soon. Come home now, please.” She’s entirely honest, pleading. It’s tender in a way that makes Emma’s heart stop and restart.    

“Did you tell her I’m here?” Henry looks at Emma, nothing but heartbreak in his eyes. 

“Just listen to me this once, Henry,” Regina entreats. “I’m your _mother_.” 

“No you’re not! You’re the Evil Queen!” Henry lashes out, and Regina reels back as though physically stung.   

“Henry, I don’t know what that woman has been telling you but I promise—” 

“No one’s told me _anything_ ,” Henry tells her, his face contorted in the frustrated rage of a very young boy. “I found everything out by myself! You lied to me _and_ Emma! You lie  to everyone!” He’s panting by the time he’s finished with his allegations, chest heaving with emotions.  

Emma feels as though she’s intruding on a private moment between mother and son, but she’s pained and rooted to the spot, quite unable to get herself to look away. 

“Henry, please —” Regina reaches out, her voice breaking. Her fingers are left grasping thin air as Henry turns around and makes a run for it.   

“I could go after him,” Emma offers uselessly.      

“He won’t get very far,” Regina says, eyes still fixed at the spot where Henry’s tiny figure disappeared behind a tall building. The neon sign boards, red and blue, add an ethereal glow to her face. “I have someone watching him.” 

It takes Regina some time to compose herself. She shifts eventually and seems to register Emma properly for the first time in the evening. “You and I need to talk,” Regina tells her. 

“We do?” Emma says, unable to keep the scepticism out of her voice. A fortnight ago, Regina was eager to kick her out of her office. And now she wants to talk. 

“My office. Tomorrow.” 

“When —” 

Regina, as though to prove Emma’s point about the Millses and dramatic exits, disappears in a puff of purple smoke.  
  


*

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW: Reproductive consent issues; non-graphic references to incarceration and torture.**

3.  


Emma gets dirty looks from the security officers at MillsCorp, but no one tries to stop her or throw her out this time. Anton the Giant actually flashes her a smile, and Emma’s not sure what to make of that.

She’s directed towards Regina’s PA — Billy, with his sceptical glare — who, in turn, leads her into what appears to be a private workspace, and quietly shuts the door behind her.

Well. Regina did say she wanted to ‘talk’, whatever that might mean.  

  
  


Regina’s private office is very different from the office she was in the other day, with its wooden finish and warm lighting. There’s a desk in one corner, surprisingly disorderly, and an inviting leather couch Emma makes herself comfortable in.

Her eyes linger on a photo of Regina’s father on the wall, smiling down at a very small Henry on his lap.  

Regina sounds tired when she strides in, heels clicking against the floor tiles. “Sorry I’m late,” she says. “I didn’t mean to make you wait.” The stiffness of her movements and the downward curve of her lips speak of exhaustion.

“Can you offer you something to drink?” Regina says, ever the gracious hostess, even as she holds herself as though she’s bracing for a blow, tense and coiled up. 

And it isn’t that Emma is _not_ tempted, but there’s something in her gut telling her that she needs to be sober for this conversation. “I’ll pass,” Emma says, trying _not_ to stare at the way the fitted navy dress hugs her curves.

This version of Regina is all grown up, and Emma’s not quite sure what to do with her. 

“You might reconsider that later,” Regina says, a hint of humour in her voice as she leans against the desk, arms crossed in front of her. She won’t look Emma in the eye.

Regina seems content to remain silent, staring into the distance like she didn’t invite, no, _command_ Emma to show up for a Talk.

“You, uh, said you wanted to talk,” Emma says, when the taut silence begins to border on unbearable. “I’m guessing it’s about Henry?”

“Yes,” Regina says, but does not volunteer any further information. Great.

The silence makes Emma nervous, makes her babble things like, “Look, Regina, I’m not stalking your kid, I promise. I don’t stalk children.” It stings that this might be a thing Regina is concerned with. Even if her first priority _should_ be her son, and not a former… friend she hasn’t spoken to in over a decade. “Like I said, he found me. He just seemed so _troubled_ , I guess I wanted to help him.”

“You think Henry is troubled?” Regina’s gaze is steady, but she’s twisting her fingers together in a nervous gesture.

“Well, how else do you explain the cape and… everything else?” Emma says, waving her hand. She doesn’t wanna offend Regina by shooting her mouth off, but Regina did say they were going to _talk_.  

“The circumstances of Henry’s birth were… unusual, to say the least,” Regina says slowly. “He has found out about them recently. I’m afraid he has taken it rather hard.” 

“Is that why —” 

“He is a sensitive boy.” There’s anguish in Regina’s face now, and Emma just wants to wipe it away somehow, make things _better_. All these years and Emma can’t bear to see Regina unhappy.  

She has a question she has to ask. A question she knows Regina is dreading, judging by the tense set of her shoulders. Emma has to _know_ if she’s going to be of any use to either Regina or Henry.  “He keeps saying — ” Emma says, licking her lips. “He keeps saying that I am his... mother?”  

Regina is silent again. Emma can hear the tick-tock of a wall clock behind them somewhere, the quiet whirr of the air conditioner. The silence stretches out between them, growing wider and wider until they’re light years apart. 

“I didn’t give birth to Henry,” Regina says eventually. Softly, so softly. She takes a deep breath, visibly steeling herself. “You must remember the circumstances of my departure.” 

“You mean when you killed your homicidal mother and set her evil lair on fire?” Emma tries to sound flippant, but she can’t help the shiver that runs down her spine at the memory. 

She dreams about that day sometimes, in vivid reds and bright oranges. Her lungs filled with smoke, suffocating. Cora’s still form on the floor and Regina kneeling over it. Her own voice, pleading, _Regina, we need to leave, please. Regina, listen to me._

Sometimes in her dreams, she doesn’t get Regina out. She always wakes up crying.

“After my mother’s death,” Regina says, her tone carefully even, “I had to take stock of what she’d left behind.” Which, yikes. “And I found this.” She pulls out a slim file from her desk and hands it to Emma. “I want you to go through it.” 

“All of it?” 

“As much as necessary,” Regina says, cryptic. She moves to sit on the couch opposite Emma, hands folded together. 

It’s an unmarked file, with a lot of diagrams and technicalspeak — something about DNAs? — that Emma could not care less about. She flips through it until her eyes screech to a halt at a place that reads,

**SUBJECT: EMMA SWAN**

**STATUS: COMPLETE**

“What the _hell_ is this?” Emma says, and Regina’s face remains impassive. If Emma didn’t know better she’d say she isn’t affected by any of this at all. “Regina?”  

“Do you remember the time my mother held you captive?”  

“Of course I do,” Emma snaps. “She fucking tried to pull out my heart. What does that have to do with anything?”

“As you may or may not be aware, my mother was a firm believer in eugenics,” Regina says. Her back is ramrod straight. “For all that she dabbled in magic and the occult, her commitment to the improvement of the natural, physical, mental, and temperamental qualities of the human family through scientific means remained a constant throughout her regrettable life.” She flashes Emma a thin smile, one that holds no trace of humour.

“You mean, like sterilization and stuff?” Emma didn’t always keep track of the details back in the days — it was more about punching people in the face. And besides, she had Regina to fill her in. 

It’s funny, how they’re effortlessly falling into those roles, as though no time has passed and nothing’s changed. Two girls in their costumes and a world of make believe — justice, honour, redemption, all those big, attractive words.

Regina’s voice brings her back to the present. “While I believe she did lobby in favour of the revival of the eugenics program, mother’s interest was more in the domain of… production,” Regina says. 

Emma’s head is beginning to hurt. “Like cloning?”

“You could say that, yes,” Regina says primly. “She believed there was quite the market for more efficient human beings.” 

“Meta-humans.” It’s beginning to make sense — pieces of a decade old puzzle falling into place.

“Tailormade for the buyer’s needs. Your… abilities made you an attractive specimen as far as mother was concerned.” Regina’s voice shakes a bit when she says it, and _oh god_ , Emma’s mind is supplying her with horror movie scenarios, like a secret impregnation or whatever —

“Regina, what did she do to me?” She sounds just about as helpless as she feels, Emma realizes. 

Regina takes a deep breath, and continues. “After I left Storybrooke, I found that my mother had a secret facility in Zurich, where she had some of the best scientists of MillsCorp at her service.”

“And?”

“I found that she had been able to produce a, a prototype,” Her voice does shake at that, because she’s talking about— 

“ _Henry?_ ” 

Regina’s silence is as good as a confirmation. _Fuck_ , why did Emma say she’d pass on that drink?  

“He found out,” Emma says. It’s not a question. 

“He did,” Regina nods. “Mother’s scientists created him using a combination of your DNA and mine. We’ve conducted tests to be certain, I have the reports if you want to take a look. I believe she intended to replicate this success into a lucrative business model. 

Emma’s ears are buzzing. Is this room really warm, or is she just having trouble breathing? She wants to get up and get the hell out of here, to run until she doesn’t have to think about Regina or Henry or Cora fucking Mills, about _anything_ at all.  

There’s a hand on her shoulder. Fuck, when did Regina get so close? “Emma, are you okay?” 

This close, her eyes are dark, fathomless. Emma knows what it’s like to lose herself in them.   

“Sorry, I just—” Emma licks her lips. _Focus_ . “So you’re saying that Henry was right. I _am_ his mother.”  

Regina moves away as though stung. “ _I'm_  his mother, Miss Swan,” she says, sharp. It snaps Emma out of her confusion, makes her mulish in a way only Regina can. She stands up abruptly and crosses her arms in defiance.  

“No, _you_ just said that it was your DNA _and_ mine. I’m pretty sure that makes us _both_ his mothers.”  

She hasn’t thought this through, this motherhood thing. She hasn’t processed the violation of it, the nightmare that was Cora getting her filthy paws on her. She’s thinking, only, of the loss in little Henry’s eyes — a boy made for order, designed to be a soldier. The knowledge could not but be heartbreaking, devastating.

A boy made out of _them_ , apparently. Her and Regina.  

Another thought occurs, just as heartbreaking: “Regina, did you _know_? When she, when she held me hostage and did whatever it is that she did to me, did you know?”  

“I did _not_ , Miss Swan,” Regina says. Her eyes are very dark, and hurt. “You are not the only one she did it to. And mother, as you are well aware, was not in the habit of taking me into confidence on most matters.” 

“Yeah,” Emma agrees, sheepish. She is, as Regina would say, well aware. 

She has more questions, _god_ , so many more questions, but she’s tongue-tied and overwhelmed, barely able to string two words together let alone give shape to the sensation bubbling inside her, making her breathless.

This is too much information, and yet not enough. 

“I called you here today because I felt it was time you knew,” Regina says. “You’ve already met my son.”

“You mean _our_ —” 

“No, I meant _my son_ , Miss Swan. Mine,” Regina says, taking a couple menacing steps closer until they’re nearly sharing the same breath. If Emma’s staring, it’s only because they’re so close and not because Regina’s just _so pretty_ like this. Nope. “I _raised_ him. Your contribution of DNA _does not_ make you his mother.”   

“I didn’t know he existed, Regina, because you didn’t _tell_ me!”

That stings, somehow. Regina found out and did not bother to let Emma know, was content to let Emma carry on in oblivion until Henry forced her hand.

There’s a flash of what might be guilt on Regina’s face, but it she’s quick to mask it with an impersonal smile.

“Well,” she says, suddenly businesslike. “I believe we’re done here. I hope I can count on your discretion, Miss Swan.”

And she’s dismissed, just like that.

“What the hell, Regina?” Emma explodes. “Do you just expect me to go home and pretend nothing ever happened?”

“That's exactly what I expect you to do,” Regina says, flashing her a politician's smile. “I believe I owed you this information, and now you have it. Do not try to contact my son again. Is that clear?”

“Seriously?” Emma says, except Regina does look like she's dead serious.

Emma can't believe her.

She can't believe any of this, her whole world turned upside down. She needs to sit down and think about it. She needs to run away and never look back. She needs to _process._

A thought stands out, even in the muddle that is her mind right now. “You should've told me,” she tells Regina. “I would've liked to know.”

She doesn’t wait to hear Regina’s response. She doesn’t think she would like it anyway.  

  
  


The Queen of Hearts, as Cora Mills was known back then, had kept the Swan hostage for a week. Emma doesn’t remember much of it except in nightmarish flashes, _syringes_ and _machines_ and _pain, so much pain_.

She remembers the aftermath; the long recovery, and Snow and David hovering over her with tears in their eyes. She remembers being in pain and wanting no one but Regina.

Regina had shown up late one evening, and curled herself around Emma without a word. “I’m sorry,” she had whispered, again and again.

 

*

 

The Librarian™ can only verify one thing: MillsCorp _did_ own a now-defunct facility in Zurich, although she has no access to information beyond that.  

She doesn’t meet Henry in the next couple of nights. She makes no progress with the Fairy Dust investigation, and evades Mulan’s attempts to drag her out for a drink. She doesn’t do anything much, beyond trying to process the bombshell Regina dropped on her.

Truth be told, motherhood isn’t a thing she’s ever seriously considered. Other women probably come equipped with biological clocks and maternal instincts. Emma came to this world equipped with the knowledge of just how much of a fuck up she is, always has been. Everything she touches breaks and turns to dust. The shiny digs (courtesy her parents) and the police badge (earned, she likes to tell herself) do not change that, do not make Emma into the functional adult she wishes she could be.

She thinks of Cora Mills, cooing over a young Emma Swan strapped to a hospital bed, and tries not to retch.

It is inconceivable that something, no, _someone_ as pure and fragile as Henry ( _my name is Henry Mills, I’m your son_ ) could have come out of that.

 

*

 

Emma is brooding in the cave for the seventh straight evening when Belle alerts her to an intruder. There’s only one person other than Emma who has the clearance to enter this place unannounced, and there’s never going to be reason for her to be in here ever again.

“Honey, you should really clean this place more often,” says her mother when Emma lifts the barriers, looking mournfully at the dusty trophy cabinets and the rat droppings on the floor. 

“Yeah,” Emma says vaguely. It would perhaps not be polite to blurt _why are you here_.

“Have you been sick, sweetheart? You don’t look so well,” Snow says, concern written all over her face. “Have you been sleeping at all?” Emma tries not to wince when she lays a hand on her forehead.

“I’m fine. _Really_ , mom,” Emma says, injecting enthusiasm she does not feel into her voice.  

By now, she is resigned to this distance between herself and her parents, one that they studiously refuse to acknowledge. Emma knows they will never quite breach this gap, not when she’s shaped and defined by the years of loss and pain. No fairytale reunion could ever undo that.  

“You don’t look fine,” Snow says, furrowing her brow.

“Uh, we’ve been working on a case,” Emma says. “It’s a little crazy. Didn’t David say?” 

Snow brightens like clockwork at the very mention of her beloved husband. Emma’s parents continue to be nauseatingly in love, even after all these years. “Oh, the Fairy Dust case!” she says. “He’s very proud of the work you’ve done so far, honey.”  

“Thanks, I guess.”

“I came to ask you something, actually,” Snow tells her. There’s a pleading note to her voice that makes Emma uncomfortable. It isn’t often that her parents ask something of her. Emma would like to be useful for once. “You probably haven’t seen my e-mails about the White Charity Ball, and I understand that you’ve been busy. But Emma, this is really important to your father and I —” 

“When is it,” Emma says flatly. She knows what her mother is going to ask.

“Can I have your word that you’ll take some time out and show up tomorrow evening? For an hour at least?” Snow says, solemn. 

“Wait, _tomorrow_?”  

And now her mother’s eyes are twinkling, like she’d been _waiting_ to spring this on Emma at the last moment. Damn.  


 

*

 

Emma ignores every dress her mother has laid out for her and shows up in a tux instead.

Emma's too old for rebellions — she showed up, hasn't she? — but she draws the line at pink floofy gowns that she wouldn't have worn even as a prom dress. If she'd ever gone to prom, that is.

Snow simply kisses her cheek and straightens her bow tie, which is… just like her mother, actually. Emma could've shown up in a sparkly golden suit with dollar signs on it and her mother would still find a way to compliment her on it, probably. They're so unfailingly _kind_ , and maybe someday Emma will be more receptive to that kindness. For now, she takes David’s hand and walks down to the White Hall, named after her great-great-grandfather, Edwin White.  

 

 

“Who's in charge of security tonight?” she tells David, already scanning the exits, taking note of the innocuously placed men and women in plainclothes. Always a cop, even when she’s off-duty.

“I knew you’d ask that,” David says with a smile. “It’s Red, relax.”

Emma does not relax. Red — Captain Lucas — is a great cop, a close friend of her parents and a meta herself, but there's something in the air tonight that has Emma all wound up. She briefly considers kicking everyone out of the room and putting an end to the evening's festivities even before it's properly begun, _before_ everything can go to hell in a handbasket.

Captain Lucas waves at her from near the main entrance, resplendent in a red gown. 

Maybe it's just nerves, Emma tells herself. She doesn't do well in crowds like this, composed of Storybrooke’s glitteratti. Maybe it’s the fact that she has a _son_ — that there is this prototype, this _boy_ Cora Mills created out of her and Regina, and Emma had no idea until he came to find her.  

Did Regina’s skin crawl when she found out the truth in Zurich? Or did she see a boy of flesh and blood and throw all caution to the wind, deciding she would be his mother instead? 

She reaches for what’s probably going to be the first of the evening’s many glasses of wine. Which, well. She’s off duty, _and_ her parents are paying for it. It would be a crime not to, she supposes.   


*

 

By the time she’s on her second glass of wine, Emma’s finally beginning to relax. 

She’s ignored most of her parents’ business associates and old friends in favour of a conversation with the Ambassador from Themyscira. Storybrooke’s rich and famous are not her cup of tea, exactly. There’s at least twenty people here with a recorded history of dubious business practices. A few, like that scumbag Gold, have been known to dabble in human trafficking and slavery in various parts of the world. Emma would gladly put them behind bars, ties with her family be damned.

The Ambassador, on the other hand, is pleasant company, witty and no-nonsense in a way that reminds her of Regina.

Emma reaches for another glass of wine.

  
  


She’s chatting with Red and stuffing her face with prawn cocktail and dumplings when she hears the commotion at the main entrance. 

“Everything all right?” she murmurs to Red, a half-chewed dumpling still in her mouth. Red’s on alert, suddenly, listening intently to whatever’s being relayed on her earpiece.

“Relax,” Red tells her, in an indulgent tone not unlike her father’s. “It’s a false alarm. Just the paparazzi going wild after guests, the usual."

Emma doesn’t relax. In fact, all thoughts of relaxation flee her completely when she spots _the_ guest in question.

Regina is a vision in her short black dress, with smoky, kohl-rimmed eyes and her hair slicked back as though she’s just had a bath. She smiles widely at Emma’s mother, who greets her with air kisses and holds her hand. They pose for photographs at the press’ urging, Regina sliding an arm around Snow’s mid-section like they’re best friends in the whole world.

Emma barely resists the urge to chug on her wine.

It’s not that Regina’s presence is surprising — she makes an appearance at every major Storybrooke event. There’s no reason why she’d make an exception for the one White Charity Ball Emma’s been arm-twisted into attending. _Damn it_.

  
  


Emma spends most of the next hour brooding in a corner, watching Regina schmooze with Storybrooke’s rich and famous. If she’s noticed Emma, she gives no indication. Their eyes meet, just the one time, and Regina looks _through_ her, like Emma’s invisible or something. And _that_ stings, somehow, on top of the mess that’s her current state of feelings about Regina Mills and her son.

Maybe it’s just the booze. Maybe it’s the booze _and_ the feelings, but Emma can’t help but cut in when Regina’s dancing with some bland dude for the nth time. “Can I have this dance?” she says, even as she’s more or less elbowing the dude out of the dance floor.

“Of course,” Regina says, slipping a warm hand into Emma’s own. She doesn’t look angry. Emma’s not sure what that look is.

They fall in step with the music, Regina content to let her take the lead. They dance at a respectable distance like perfectly polite strangers and do not make eye contact at all.  

“How’s Henry?” Emma says, after a few minutes of awkward silence.

“Fine,” Regina says, clenching her jaw. “He’s fine.”

“Really?” Emma challenges. “Haven’t seen him in his cape the last couple days.”

As expected, it gets a rise out of Regina, who says, “That’s probably because he’s at home in his bed, as any boy his age _should_ be,” eyes flashing.

Emma says nothing in response, just waits until Regina deflates. “He’s grounded,” she tells Emma, soft and pained. “I’ve set up a security system that he hates.”

“Is he still doing the whole _I need to be a superhero to defeat evil_  thing?” Emma can’t help but ask.

“If by evil you mean me, then yes, he is.” Her tone is dry, but Regina doesn’t bother masking the raw pain in her eyes. It hits Emma like a ton of bricks, leaves her short of breath. 

She wants to ask more questions, but she doesn’t want to drive Regina away, not when she’s so soft in her arms. One song becomes another, and then another one. Emma feels her palms beginning to sweat as Regina moves closer, her breath warm against Emma’s cheek.

  
  


This time, Emma almost misses the commotion, so engrossed is she in the feeling of Regina in her arms again. It’s hard to miss the music grinding to a halt, however, or the sound of something large crashing into the ground. The gates being pried open, as though by immense force.

And then there’s Captain Hook, sashaying inside and striking a dramatic pose. “Stand aside, ladies and gentlemen,” he says. “This is between me and my crocodile.” 

Emma sighs. He always did like to make an entrance.

“Hook’s still _around?_ ” Regina says, incredulous.  

She hasn’t pulled away from Emma’s arms. And well, Emma’s not complaining. “Nine lives,” she tells Regina. “He’s a bit of a joke now.” 

“Was he ever anything _but_?” Regina smirks.  

Emma knows she’s thinking of the time when the good Captain decided he was in love with the Swan — still in her teens, then — and trailed her around for a few days, with a seemingly endless supply of roses and poorly-composed loved poems, claiming he was reformed by love. It got creepy fast, and Emma and Regina teamed up and shoved him into the ocean. 

It was one of their earliest team ups, back when they still traded barbs like love notes, not quite sure of what to make of the spark between them.   

“Where are you, Crocodile?” Captain Hook roars again. 

“That’s enough, buddy,” Red intervenes. “There are no crocodiles here. I suggest you go take a swim.” 

An uneasy laughter erupts in the crowd, but that only seems to infuriate Hook even more. Emma senses trouble. 

The problem with someone like Hook is that they _hate_ being laughed at. Emma’s dealt with too many villains like him before. Men like him, they demand attention, and expect everyone else to take them as seriously as they take themselves.  

The crowd, taking cue from Captain Lucas’ ill-timed joke, is doing the very opposite. They have nothing but derision and mockery for his shabby leather and the faint fish stench that surrounds him.

“Where _is_ Gold?” Regina murmurs. “I met him a little while ago.” 

So did Emma, but she imagines he’s slipped away somewhere in the confusion. Hook’s beef with Gold is a tale as old as time, and to be perfectly honest, Emma doesn’t care.

“Cut and ran, no doubt,” Emma whispers back. 

“So that’s how it is going to be,” Hook says, clenching his jaw. “Very well.” 

In the split second that it takes Emma to react, Hook’s taken his pistol out and fired a shot in air.

  
  


All the lights go off together. There’s smoke coming in from every direction, making her eyes water. Her abilities help in a time like this, but not everyone in this room has that luxury. 

Her first concern is Regina, who seems to be standing upright without the slightest difficulty. “I have a trick,” she tells Emma when their eyes meet, lips curving up in a smirk. Emma can’t help the thrill that runs down her spine.

“Nice,” she says, feeling her lips quirk in an answering smirk. “Red’s gonna get everyone out. You feeling up for a little action, Ms. Mills?”

Regina already has a signature ball of fire in her palm.

 

 

The two of them make short work of Hook’s henchmen. Untrained louts, the lots of them. 

“Come on, Lady Swan,” Hook pleads. “I’m not your enemy here. The Crocodile owes me money, and hell of a lot more. Just give me the Crocodile and we can be done with all of this.” 

Regina’s at her back, keeping up a steady stream of fire to ward off any attacks from behind. Hook, the creep that he is, actually sounds delighted to see her. “Aren’t _you_ a vision, my queen!” he crows. “Are you truly back in business? Storybrooke hasn’t been the same in your absence.”

Emma’s honestly had enough. “Shut the fuck up, you useless peacock,” she tells him. She grabs him by the collar and punches him in the face, knocking him out for good. 

Regina’s smile, when she looks at her, is wide.

  


*

  


It gets a little chaotic after that, with the evacuation and the press outside, pouncing on them like a horde of hyenas. Emma lets David field the questions, choosing to hang back in the shadows instead.

She doesn’t have to look up to know who’s walked up to stand next to her. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Emma says, grinning. “Looks like you still got it.” 

“You’ve slowed with age” is what Regina says in response. 

“ _Hey!_ ” Emma says, outraged.   

“It took you longer than I expected to take the eight men down,” Regina says, still critical. Which is frankly unfair. 

“I’m not sixteen anymore,” Emma protests, unable to hold back the whiny note creeping into her voice. Regina’s hardly a spring chicken herself. “But we got the job done, didn’t we?” 

The _we_ slips out unwarranted, but Emma finds she doesn’t mind saying the words out loud. They still make a good team.  

Regina doesn’t contest it. “We did,” she replies, genuine warmth in her voice. 

There’s that spark between them still, as potent as ever. At sixteen, Emma didn’t know what it meant. At thirty-two, Emma would be a fool if she didn’t.

She doesn’t want to destroy the magic of this moment, just the two of them basking in the glory of the fight. But she has to ask, because it’s no longer _just_ the two of them, is it?  

“Listen,” she tells Regina. “Is everything okay with Henry?”

“He’s grounded and convinced I’m evil,” Regina says, weary. “What else do you want to know?”

“What did he find out that has him so upset?” 

“Newspaper clips. Reports of my mother’s activities, and my own involvement in it.” 

There’s that slow-burning sense of hurt, still, coiled deep within Emma’s chest. But Emma chooses to push it aside, because she does want to know and _understand_.  

She was drawn to Henry even before she truly believed in any of his outlandish claims. And now it seems impossible to walk away, even if she has no idea what to do with this newfound son of hers. 

“Does he have any abilities?” Emma has to ask. 

“Apart from a very fertile imagination?,” Regina says. “None that I know of, not yet. Magical abilities run in my family, but Henry has manifested none so far.”   

“So he’s —” 

“Just a boy, yes,” Regina says, her smile so wide it hurts. “Mother wanted to make soldiers, but she ended up making a boy instead.”  


*


	4. Chapter 4

 4.

Emma’s in an excellent mood until she reaches the station the next morning, at which point she runs into Mulan, hunched over her desktop and scowling at something on the screen.

She tosses an incident report at Emma without a word. Two more kids hopped up on superhero juice, this time at Rottstown. One of them is in a critical condition following a collapse shortly after the drug wore out.

“This is bad, Emma,” Mulan says.

“No trace of Gretel?” Emma asks, even though she already knows the answer to _that_ . It’s like the girl has vanished — which in fact may very well be one of her abilities, who knows.

 

Her foul mood persists until lunch, after which it turns rapidly to trepidation, all because of a simple text: _Dinner at 6. 108, Mifflin Street. Henry would like to see you._

It’s just like Regina to expect her to drop everything and just... turn up. It’s just like Emma to do exactly that.

 

*

 

Emma isn’t sure what she’s expecting when she drives up to 108, Mifflin Street, but it’s certainly not this rather modestly-sized house. It’s still bigger and fancier than what most plebs can afford, of course, but hardly the sort of place she’d expect Storybrooke’s fourth richest citizen to live in.   

Regina gets the door herself, which is another surprise. She thought there’d a butler or two. 

“Hi,” Emma says, a little tongue-tied. She wipes her sweaty palms surreptitiously on the back of her jeans. 

“Come in,” Regina says. She’s in an apron, which is a very attractive look on her. “My apologies for such a short notice.”

“I wasn’t expecting it,” Emma says, honest. “I mean, I’m glad you invited me. Just surprised.”

“Henry wanted to see you.” Regina is tight-lipped. _He’s grounded and convinced I’m evil_ , Emma remembers, and doesn’t say a word.

 

She’s awkward around Henry now, now that she knows that this is… real. That he wasn’t deluded, or just making outlandish claims for the sake of drama or attention. She's awkward around Henry and she hates that she is, even if he doesn't seem to mind that Emma didn't take him seriously in the beginning at all. 

“Henry, will you set the table for three, please?” Regina tells him, with the practised ease of someone who’s been doing this as long as he’s been old enough to set the table, probably. “Dinner is ready.”

She watches them, mother and son — _their son_ — and doesn’t know what she feels.  

 

 

When Regina gets up to fetch dessert, Henry tells her in quick, hushed tones, “You have to tell mom to let me help you with the investigation!”

“What? Henry, no, I can’t do that!”

“Why _not_ ?” Henry protests. “I can _help_ you! I’m _good_ at this!”

“Henry, you’re _ten_. You have to listen to your mother.”

His face takes on an obstinate look, one that Emma's grown familiar with by now. “You’re my mom too,” he says

Emma sighs. “I… may have contributed to your birth, Henry,” she says cautiously, "but Regina loved you and took care of you all these years. She’s your mother.”

 

 

“How did it go with Henry?” Regina asks, after she's sent him upstairs to finish his homework. 

An abridged version of their conversation is all Emma's willing to offer at the moment. "He wants to help with an on-going investigation, which I don’t think is a good idea,” Emma says. 

Regina nods, but says nothing. Emma hangs around awkwardly, watching Regina tidy her kitchen with mesmerizing efficiency.

“He’s still pretty upset,” Emma says eventually. That does get a reaction — an open look of anguish Emma wasn’t quite expecting. Regina’s grown-up mask tends to fall apart with mentions of her— _their?_ — son, Emma has noticed.

“He’s too young for all of this, I get it. I just wish I could help, somehow,” Emma says, eager to soothe. As always.

“You’re the mother he has decided he wants, Miss Swan,” Regina says with a thin smile. “I’m sure you’ll help.”

“Regina, I—” Emma doesn’t know what to say, how to convince Regina that she never thought she would have children or a family, how she has seldom felt at home at her parents’ large mansion.

How looking at Regina and Henry makes her feel like it’s something she could be a part of. Maybe.

There’s that question on the tip of her tongue and Emma can’t hold it back, can’t _not_ let it spill like a blot of ink on a clean sheet of paper. “Were you ever planning to tell me? When you found out?”   
  
Regina looks away and doesn’t answer, which in itself is enough of an answer for Emma.

“Right,” she says. The room feels claustrophobic, and Emma just needs to get out of this place.

 

*

 

She’s surprised to find a text from Regina the next morning that says, _Henry would like it if you picked him up from school today._

Another one follows: _If that fits your schedule. He doesn’t wish to inconvenience you_.

Which, yeah. _Of course_ , Emma replies. _I’ll be there._

 

It becomes routine over the next month or so, Regina asking Emma if she can make time for Henry, and of course, _of course_ Emma can. Emma is happy to.

And thus begins one of the oddest periods on Emma’s adult life, in the course of which Emma spends most of her days and nights investigating a case that doesn’t seem to have any intention whatsoever of letting up, scouring the roughest neighborhoods of the city looking for a key witness who appears to have vanished in thin air. In between, Emma hangs out with Henry, precious little Henry who is everything good and pure in this world, even if he’s still a little too obsessed with capes and fighting crime. He didn’t grow up the way they did, and Emma is very, very grateful for that.

  


One afternoon — a particularly lovely one that has them stop over for ice cream and wander aimlessly in the beach — Emma asks him, as always, “How’s your mom?”

She’s seen very little of Regina herself, and she’s just… curious. Yeah. Curious.

“She’s okay,” Henry shrugs. “A little sad I think. But okay.”

_Oh_ , Emma thinks, watching the way he busies himself collecting seashells. Henry’s a talkative kid, but sometimes, there are cues in his actions — things he doesn’t wholly comprehend himself.

He seldom volunteers information on his mother beyond perfunctory observations, and that in itself means something. Emma plants herself next to him on the sand, piling up sand with her hands and making ugly sandcastles that has him delighted nonetheless.

“Why do you think your mom is sad, Henry?” Emma asks gently, fixing a squiggly seashell on top of an ugly heap of sand that she’s taken to calling the Buckingham Palace. It makes Henry giggle, and that's all she asks.  

“I dunno, she just is,” Henry shrugs. Henry looks… guilty. He looks like _wants_ to talk.

Emma digs a moat around the Buckingham Palace with her fingers. “Did you say something that made her sad, kiddo?” she says. 

“We had a fight,” Henry says, squirming a little.

“About what?” Emma prods, gently.

“I just wanted her to tell me,” Henry says, focusing all his attention on digging a massive hole next to the Buckingham Palace. “About my grandma and everything. Why can’t she just tell me?” He drops all the seashells he’s collected so far into the hole and covers them up with sand.

“Henry,” Emma sighs. She’s not sure if it’s her place to say this, but _someone_ has to. Might as well be her, she decides, thinking of the agony in Regina's face every time Henry recoils from her touch. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but your grandma was _not_ a nice person. She hurt your mom a lot when she was young, okay? It’s hard for your mom to talk about these things. You have to be patient with her.”

“But she _made_ me!” Henry explodes. 

_Oh_. 

Emma wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him close, in a gesture that comes almost naturally.

_She gets_ it, she does. She gets it the same way she got the girl playing at being the big bad Evil Queen, all the while wishing for something different. “Henry, listen to me,” she says firmly. “You don’t have to wear a cape and be a hero to prove you’re not evil, okay? Your grandma made you, but she didn’t make you evil. No one can do that unless you _choose_ to be evil yourself.”  

“But my mom —”

“I don’t know what you’ve found out about your mom or what she’s told you, but when _I_ met your mom, kiddo? She was trying to do the right thing. Saved my life, actually,” Emma says with a fond smile, thinking of the girl who showed up unexpectedly in a puff of purple smoke and told Emma she smelled bad. 

  


Later, Emma watches him walk barefoot on the edge of the water and quietly fits a tracker underneath his favorite pair of sneakers. Regina would probably not approve of such a breach of her son's prviacy, but old habits die hard. Henry's just flighty enough that they might need it at one point.

  


On their way back Henry asks her a question she wasn’t prepared for:

“Did you and my mom date?”

“I —” Emma sputters. “Why do you think that?”

“Why did you break up?” Henry says, clearly not buying her evasion.

“Sometimes things don’t work out the way we want them to, Henry,” Emma hastens to explain, before he concludes something suitably awful about Regina’s evil past again.

He doesn’t seem entirely satisfied, but at least he stops asking.

 

*

 

There are more dinner invitations. Emma’s never asked to stay on afterwards, and a part of her is relieved that she isn’t. She doesn’t trust herself around Regina alone, not yet. 

She watches mother and son interact and feels something within her chest expand and contract at the same time.

 

Regina smiles more often at her, even if there’s that undercurrent of resentment that Emma doesn’t know how to address.

  


One day, she drives to MillsCorp to pick Henry up, but when he comes down he’s accompanied by his mother as well. “I invited mom for ice cream,” Henry says, and it’s such an unexpected pleasure that Emma doesn’t know how to react except to say, “Yeah, of course. Hop in.” 

Regina wrinkles her nose at the sight of empty chocolate wrappers and crumpled coffee cups in the car, but there’s a shyness about her that reminds Emma of —

Of things she’d rather not think about. 

It’s for Henry. He looks more at ease than he has for as long as Emma’s known him — which isn’t very long at all — and smiles at his mother without a trace of doubt or resentment.

Regina with Henry is all soft smiles and warm eyes and she’s breathtaking like this, _glowing_ and content.

At one point Regina reaches out and wipes ice cream off her nose without the slightest trace of hesitation, and if Emma stops breathing, well. Surely she can’t be blamed for it.

 

*

 

Emma’s nervous the next time she’s invited for dinner.

It feels like something has changed between them, some small imperceptible shift that has her smile like a heartsick fool every time Regina texts her — and there’s been a lot of that, somehow — and daydream.

It’s silly, the things she dreams up. A world where she and Regina find Henry together, a lifetime of watching Henry’s first steps and toothless smiles and the way Regina softens around him. It’s not something Regina would want, and yes, there’s that hurt still, the absolute knowledge that Regina _found_ Henry and never _thought_ to mention it to Emma, that all these days of plodding through her mostly-miserable life trying to amount to _something_ could perhaps been different—

It’s dangerous and _stupid_.  

But she’s smiling when she gets the next text from Regina, a terse _Try not to be late_ that has her humming at work and fluffing her hair a little more than necessary on her way to Regina’s.

She doesn’t stop smiling when Henry opens the door for her, bouncy in a way only a hyperactive ten year old can be. _This is her son_ , even if she — or his other mother — didn’t consent to his existence, exactly.

Cora wanted a soldier but somehow managed to make a boy, and isn’t that a fucking miracle?

 

*

 

Regina’s in an apron — a very ordinary apron with a tomato stain on it, and a hint of flour on her cheek where she’s probably wiped her hand at some point. She’s more dishevelled than Emma’s used to seeing her, and somehow never more ethereal at the same time.

“Emma, could you chop those carrots please?” she says, without so much as a word in greeting. And it’s— Emma can’t breathe with the rightness of it.

“Yeah, of course,” she manages to say. “Time to make myself useful." 

“Mmm,” Regina says, still intent on stirring the steaming pot with a ladle. “Just the carrots, not your fingers.” Like Emma didn’t wield a _sword_ in her superhero days.  

Regina laughs when Emma tells her that, a bright, clear laugh that she hasn’t heard in a decade and _god_ , Emma’s in so much trouble.  

If Henry looks at them a little oddly, it’s really none of his business.  

*

 

This time, she gets an invitation for a nightcap. Of course she does.

She’s nervous again, as jumpy as a cornered animal. Their fingers brush when Regina hands her the glass of wine, and it’s like a jolt of Regina’s potent magic when she knows it’s just skin on skin.

Regina’s skin, of course, is the last thing she needs to think about. Or the curve of her hips and the scorching warmth—

She takes a long sip of her wine. And another. 

They make small talk about Henry’s progress in school and his B in the math test that has Regina more worked up than all the times he’s called her evil. It’s, it’s endearing and _normal_ , a sort of a conversation she’d never thought she’d have with Regina, even as a foolish girl hopelessly in love with the girl behind that Evil Queen’s mask.  

Emma isn’t sure when they go through the bottle of wine and open another one, except that the world’s gone soft and blurred around the edges. There’s only Regina in front of her, Regina in her soft blue gown and dark, dark eyes that unlock an avalanche of buried memories.

She tries to keep the conversation to staid, safe topics, to things that don’t overturn the delicate balance between them, but it’s getting harder to measure her words, to restrain herself from saying all the things that sit at the tip of her tongue. Like:

“Henry’s still obsessed with my case,” with a snort, missing the way Regina’s nostrils flare. “He tried to talk me into letting him come and investigate.” Regina was the same way, she thinks fondly, persistent and ever-so-curious — a bit of a nerd, really.     

“I see,” Regina says, her lips a thin, tight line. “And I take it you encouraged him to do just that?”

“Regina,” Emma says, alarmed at the sudden drop in temperature. “I’m not gonna— I wouldn’t do that, you know that, right?”

“I know nothing of that sort,” Regina says, and okay, that actually _hurts_. That hurts quite a bit.

She thought they were over this by now, in the past few weeks of slow but sure progress, of Regina graciously accommodating her in their lives and Emma doing her best to fit in, for all that she’s felt like an interloper between mother and son.

“Regina,” Emma says. “Come on.” She sets her wine glass aside, and lifts herself to stand in front of Regina. “You _know_ how I feel about kids in capes. You know I don’t want to take him away from you. I’m just, I don’t know,” she says, running a tired hand through her hair, “I’m just happy to get to know him.”   

“You’re the mother he wants,” Regina says. She sounds defeated.

“Maybe, but it’s a not a competition,” Emma says. “You’re the mother he needs.”

Regina looks up at Emma, her eyes full of unshed tears threatening to spill over. “I want you to disabuse him of the notion that he needs to run around in a cape to make amends for _my_ past. Can you do that? For him?”   

Emma moves on auto-pilot, kneeling in front of Regina in one swift motion. This isn’t safe or staid, no, but perhaps safe is a luxury that they left behind a decade ago. It’s about here and now, and about Regina believing that _she’s_ somehow led Henry to this new pre-occupation of his.   

“It’s not about your past,” Emma says, resting a firm hand on Regina’s knee. “It’s about _his_.”

“Emma, he’s _ten._ He doesn’t _have_ a past,” Regina says, shaking her head.

“He’s a ten year old who found out he was _made_ in a laboratory by his evil grandmother,” Emma says. “He’s a ten year old who googled old news reports about his mothers, where you’re the Evil Queen and I’m the Savior of Storybrooke. What’s he supposed to think, Regina?”

“What do you suggest I do?” Regina says, after a long moment. A soft hand comes to rest on Emma’s own, where she’s gripping Regina’s knee still. Emma can’t help the tremor that runs through her at the touch of her hand.

“Tell him what he wants to know,” Emma tells her, earnest. “Tell him the whole story.” 

_Their_ story — the one where they were young together, and burning with unquenchable fire to set their world in order. The one where they fought each other until they fought together, shoulder to shoulder, comrades-in-arms. They one where they loved in a way only the young can, passionately and _foolishly_ , and Emma isn’t sure she has ever recovered, or if she even wants to.

Emma doesn’t protest when Regina removes her hand and gestures for her to sit on the couch next to her, or when she silently pours them both another glass of wine. Turns out intense, heartfelt conversations have a sobering effect.

She isn’t expecting it when Regina begins to speak, her voice low and unsteady, a little rougher than usual. “I didn’t know how to tell you.” Her eyes are dark, beseeching, more open than Emma’s witnessed in a long time. “I didn’t know how you would react, or if you wanted to do anything with me or a son that came out of my mother’s actions.”

She isn’t lying.   

Emma takes a deep breath, and turns slightly on the couch to face Regina. “Regina, you _left_.”  

It’s a decade-long ache, buried deep inside. But Regina’s brought it up and Emma’s helpless against the onslaught of emotions, or the accusations that spill out unwarranted. “You left without a word and it was like you disappeared.”

Emma remembers the days right after Cora’s death and Regina’s disappearance: the public glare; the fawning media and celebrations of the Savior that Emma never felt like, even for a minute; the proud smiles of her parents who finally had a daughter who was worth something. The long nights of absolute despair, and looking for Regina, always looking. Running her sword through Belle’s console in rage and frustration, only to have her father replace it the very next day without a word.

She hung up her boots soon after. 

“What choice did I have?” Regina says, eyes blazing. “Stay here and be laughingstock of all my mother’s enemies? Or worse, be targeted by each and every one of her cronies?”

“We could have faced them together,” Emma says, as plaintive as the girl who once asked Regina to be her friend. “I could’ve helped you find Henry. And, I dunno, chipped in at times when you needed some help or something. If you wanted me to, I mean.” It’s her one secret, a fantasy she’s never quite been able to say out loud, even just to herself. It sounds ridiculous even as she utters it.  

Regina’s eyes are very, very wide. Emma lowers her head, feeling herself flush.

She can’t quite help the shudder that runs through her when a warm hand lands on her cheek, ever so gentle. Fingers grasp the wine glass in her hand and Emma hands it over without protest, watching Regina set it down on the coffee table with purpose. And then they’re holding hands, fingers tangled together. 

There’s a certain inevitability to the way their lips come together — Regina surging forward and Emma meeting her halfway. Hesitant at first, gentle and uncertain. And then harder, almost desperate, Emma scrambling to press Regina against the couch and explore her mouth with a searching tongue.

She’s kissed these lips a thousand times, but this feels… new. Different. Regina’s kisses are fierce, determined, her hands sure and firm as they creep under Emma’s shirt and caress her bare skin.

It’s like her whole world’s narrowed to just this, to this _woman_ who’s her Regina, all grown up and somehow _here_.

It’s too much to take in, overwhelming, and Emma has to break away to breathe for a moment.

“Emma?” Regina says. Her lipstick is all but gone. She’s breathtaking like this. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Emma says, suddenly shy. “It’s just… it doesn’t feel real, you know? It’s like I’m dreaming.”

Regina’s smile is fond, filling her with a warmth she hasn’t felt in years. “You’re not dreaming,” Regina says, kissing her softly on the lips. “This is real.” 

And then she thrusts a hand underneath Emma’s pants, right where she’s aching for her, and yeah, it’s real alright.

 

*

 

She doesn’t know how long they spend on that couch, or when they finally move up to Regina’s bedroom — Regina holds her hand all the way up the stairs and what is time, anyway?  
  
There’s laughter, too, Regina mocking Emma’s clumsiness with the clasp of her bra and the way Emma’s jaw drops when she does away with both their clothes with a snap of her magic fingers. There’s softness and warmth and there’s Regina blinking back tears as Emma thrusts into her, almost desperate.  

Later, much later, Emma buries her face in the crook of Regina’s neck and whispers a quiet confession, “I looked for you everywhere, but I couldn’t find you.” 

Regina strokes her hair, holds her even closer. “I didn’t want to be found, I think,” she says. “I was afraid.”  


*

 

 

Mulan’s already at her desk when Emma shows up for her shift at the precinct, poring over a set of files with intense concentration. 

If she notices Emma’s good mood, she doesn’t comment on it, which is just as well. Emma isn’t sure if she can explain waking up wrapped around Regina in the early hours of the morning, soft and sleepy kisses and murmured words of comfort. The way she bit her lip when Emma was about to leave, before ducking her head and leaning in for a quick kiss. 

It’s all Emma’s ever wanted, and to think Regina might concur, that she might know the loneliness, the ache deep in her bones—

“There’s been a development,” Mulan says. “One of Hook’s boys sang.”

There’s an odd feeling in her gut — something like dread. “Yeah?” Emma says, ignoring the feeling. This case needs to move, and this could be _it_ , that one lead that they’ve been looking for all this while.  

“I’ve been trying to follow it up. There’s a warehouse near the docks, owned by the HM Chem folks from the looks of it —”

“Wait, HM Chem?” Emma feels cold all over.

“Yeah, it’s a subsidiary of MillsCorp.” 

A white noise drowns out the rest of Mulan’s words. HM Chem, a subsidiary of MillsCorp. MillsCorp. _Regina._  

  
  
**


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a humongous chapter, sorry. **CW for non-graphic references to torture.**

5.

 

Emma’s father is visibly pleased at the debriefing, all broad smiles and words of praise for Emma and Mulan and the Captain. Emma stands in attention, unable to focus on anything but the image of a sleepytousled Regina just a few hours ago, her face lit up by the rays of the warm morning sun. Her knees feel weak, as though they might buckle at the slightest opportunity.   

“I want this resolved,” says her father in his most Commander-like voice. “And I want this done as fast as possible.”

“Yes, sir,” says Captain Humbert, and Emma can only nod. 

“Nearly twenty children in rehab so far, and who knows how many more might be caught up in this nightmare? The parents of Storybrooke are worried for their children, and, as you might be aware,” David says, rolling his eyes, “I have been under considerable political pressure in these past months.” The Mayor, of course, not to mention the press.    

It isn’t children _with_ parents who are the ones most vulnerable, Emma doesn’t say.    

“We’re on it, sir,” says Captain Humbert with a nod. “Questioning one of the city’s, uh, leading industrialists might pose a bit of a problem, but —”

“Detective Swan will handle it,” David interrupts, beaming at Emma in a manner that is perhaps more doting parent than boss. “Right, Emma?”

It has to be her. Emma already know this, knows that Regina will be  _furious_ , that this will break whatever tentative peace they’ve found with each other. It’s also the only solid lead they’ve managed in _days_ , and there is no excuse Emma can offer to walk away from the case and never look back.  

There is another prospect — too terrible to contemplate. 

MillsCorp, under Marian Álvarez’s able leadership, rose like a phoenix from the ashes of the Cora Mills days — the near bankruptcy and the shady dealings with drug lords and supervillains, secret projects to make super soldiers out of — 

It’s like the air goes out of her lungs at one go, and she’s left gasping for breath. Regina’s not, Regina _wouldn’t_ — 

“You okay there, Detective?” her father’s voice cuts through the fog, almost concerned. 

Emma nods weakly, not trusting herself to speak. 

She wants nothing more than to turn back time to the breakfast table at the Mills’, to the laughter and the lightness and Henry’s utter delight at having _both his moms around_ (he said, with an ear-splitting grin). The way Regina closed her eyes when he went willingly into her arms, without so much as a word of protest.   

There’s doubt weighing on her heart, a _poisonous_ voice in her ears that reminds her that she doesn’t _know_ why Regina came back to Storybrooke— 

Emma struggles to hold on to the lightness, to that feeling of something falling in place as she watched Regina hold her son, utterly content.  

“I’ll get it done, Sir,” she says, her voice as thin as a reed. It has to be her.      


*

 

No one stops her from walking into MillsCorp. For once, Emma wishes they _would_.

She even gets a pleasant smile from Regina’s secretary, by now used to her presence, and feels sick to her stomach. She’s been here enough times, popping in with Henry unannounced after school and ice cream. 

Regina is where she’d expected her to be, poring over a stack of paperwork in a pair of glasses Emma’s never seen on her before. Her breath catches, and Emma has to remind herself to breathe, _just breathe_.

Regina’s hair frames her face like a soft halo and Emma wants nothing more than to walk right in and kiss her and kiss her until all doubt is banished from her heart.

She knocks on the door instead, awkward and tongue-tied. She clutches the envelope with the photographs in her hand.

Regina smiles when she sees Emma, surprised and warm. Emma can’t bring her sluggish legs to move. She can’t do this, she isn’t _going to_ , she can’t afford to break the _one thing_ she has wanted all her life, right after _finally_ having it in her grasp.

“Detective Swan,” Regina says, her voice sultry. “Here to arrest me?” 

And at any other time Emma would retort with something suitably cheesy, like _yes, your majesty, for stealing my heart_ , and they would both laugh and— 

Emma clears her throat. “I’m, uh, here on work, actually.” 

“And how may I be of service?” Regina says, still flirtatious, like she doesn’t understand that their world is falling apart.   

Emma scratches the back of her neck and says, “You might know that there’s a drug we’ve been investigating. It’s a sort of a superhero juice, basically —”

“I know what Fairy Dust is, Miss Swan,” Regina says, shaking her head. “Henry will speak of nothing else.”

“Then you know that the victims have been mostly children,” Emma says, watching Regina’s face transform, her eyes burning with a fire that cannot but be sincere. She _knows_ Regina.

“If you want me to look into developing a possible antidote, I would be happy to help,” Regina says. “I can talk to Dr. Guinevere Barton. I assume you’ve heard of her?” And yes, Emma has. But that isn’t why she’s here.

Regina is luminous like this, flushed and _glowing_ , but it’s the trust, the trust in her eyes that cuts through like a goddamned bullet.

The trust, and the way it makes way for confusion as Emma asks her next question, “Is HM Chem a MillsCorp subsidiary?”

“It was owned by my late father, yes,” Regina says slowly. “What does that have anything to do with your investigation?”

“Does the company own a warehouse by the docks?”

Emma can tell the exact moment Regina catches on — it’s not as though Regina has ever been anything _but_ very, very capable — by the way her gaze hardens. Her spine straightens, and she looks like— She looks _cornered_.

“It owns three, in fact,” Regina says. Her voice could cut diamonds. “Is this an interrogation, Detective? Am _I_ under suspicion here?” The very air between them grows cold, as though by magic (perhaps it _is_ ).

“No, _Regina_.” Emma struggles to get the words out, but her tongue feels heavy and the words do not sound right. “This isn’t about that. We just need your help to investigate the warehouse— this one,” Emma says, placing the photograph on her desk.

“Does the Storybrooke PD believe that MillsCorp is responsible for those drugs being out in the streets, Detective Swan?” Regina says, her voice raw and a little wild. “Is that what’s going on here?”

“It’s just routine investigation, Regina—”

“No, no it isn’t,” Regina says, growing angrier by the minute. “It isn’t just _routine investigation_ when you come and accuse _Cora Mills’ daughter_ of putting _drugs_ out in the streets. You knew this. You _planned_ this, didn’t you? Showing up in my house with those doe eyes of yours—”

“Regina,” Emma says, helpless. There’s never been more distance between them, even when Regina was thousands of miles away. “That’s not why— You can’t think that I, I did what I did _because_ —” She fumbles with the words. She can feel the tears that sting her eyes, and _god_ , this is _not_ how she conducts herself at work. This is an investigation. Her _job_.

“Is _this_ how you think you’ll get hold of my son? Take him away from me once and for all?” Regina sneers.

“Regina, _no_ , will you please just calm down and _listen_ to me?” Emma doesn’t mean to raise her voice, she doesn’t, but it’s this accusation that stings the most. That somehow, after last night, Regina can still believe Emma will do _that_ to her or Henry.

“ _Calm down_?” There is a honest-to-god ball of fire on her palm.

"I can get a warrant, Regina,” Emma says flatly. “I was hoping it wouldn’t have to come to that.”

“Get a warrant, Detective,” Regina says. “And get the hell out of my office.”

The fireball catches the sleeve of Emma’s jacket on her way out.

  


*

 

It takes an hour of driving aimlessly to contain herself, to stop herself from hyperventilating or breaking down in a flood of unprofessional tears. This is her _job_ , dammit, and enough helpless kids have been driven to the brink of death and mental breakdowns already. She knows these kids, she’s _been_ these kids — before her super rich birth-parents found her in a fairtytale plot twist, that is.  

She knows what drives a poor kid on the streets to a drug that promises superpowers.

Emma’s never believed in the Savior bullcrap — the title always felt like something she hadn’t earned, more of a burden than anything else — but this, this is _her_ job.

She just doesn’t know what she will do if she loses Henry over this, after he found her and _wanted_ her.

It isn’t fair, it isn’t _right_ that she might lose Regina the second time over, Regina who had looked at her with utmost trust and offered to work on an antidote as though she knew how much it would mean to Emma.

 

*

 

After the high drama at Regina’s office and the agony of it all, the warehouse raids — that’s what the press is calling them, at least — are nothing if not anti-climactic.

It’s not much of a lead. There is no case. Emma knows it as soon as she steps inside the MillsCorp warehouse, accompanied by a stony-faced Marian Álvarez and a cute lawyer called Tamara Flynn who Mulan insists is terrifying for reasons she will not explain.

She doesn’t know if it’s just wishful thinking, her feelings over… _everything_ asserting themselves over her ability to reason and do her damn job.

But the feeling grows stronger as Marian accompanies her team to the HM Chem warehouses ( _all three of them, I insist, Detective_ , she says, and Emma can hear Regina’s ice-cold voice inside her head), and Emma isn’t sure if she’s relieved or disappointed or both at the same time.

 

*

 

Emma’s misery is the Storybrooke news outlets’ delight.

IS THE EVIL QUEEN BACK?, reads an obnoxious headline in the _Storybrooke Post_ , while the _Storybrooke Mirror_ appears to have dug up every lurid detail of Regina’s past, down to the grisly minutiae of Cora Mills’ death and her many, many crooked dealings in her time at MillsCorp.

There is one notable exception: Henry, no doubt courtesy Regina’s meticulous efforts to cover up every bit of _that_ story. 

She isn’t _surprised_ by the interest, not really. After all, the woman formerly known as the Evil Queen has always been the subject of great fascination in Storybrooke. There’s an entire subreddit dedicated to her, full of frankly gross fanboys and crazy conspiracy theories about her ‘lost years’. Add the so-called Savior to the mix, and you have the stuff of juicy gossip.

It has been seven days. Seven days since Emma kissed Regina and then accused her of selling drugs — at least as far as Regina is concerned, though all Emma asked for was her cooperation — to innocent children. Seven days since she’s seen or heard from Regina and Emma feels like she’s drowning. Her texts go unanswered and her calls unreturned. 

At the station, Mulan is listless and the Captain more glum with every passing visit to the lab. In fact, the only person still gung-ho about this particular line of investigation is Emma’s father — which, to be fair, may have something to do with the press conferences he has to do every other day, and the fact that he’s the person _least_ suited for political maneuvers in the entire police department, including Emma and her taciturn partner.  

It has been seven days and they feel longer, somehow, than all the days they have spent apart.  

 

*

 

On the eighth day, when Emma is close to assaulting the lowlife snitch after yet another frustrating interrogation, Captain Humbert sends her home, and Mulan too, for good measure. 

“Come back when you have a concrete lead” is all he’ll say, and Emma is left shamefaced and fuming. 

They don’t go home. It isn’t as though either of them have much in the way of lives. Instead, Mulan drags her to a shitty cop bar where they can brood over their beer in blessed silence.

“I’ve been thinking,” Mulan says, after their third round. Or is it their fourth? Who can tell.

“Tell me about it,” Emma snorts, because that’s _all_ she has been doing, _thinking_ , and thinking some more until her hands itch and she watches their only lead fall apart and can’t even bring herself to regret it. Not when Regina is involved. “I need to hit something. Or someone.” 

“No, Swan,” Mulan says, tapping on her half-empty mug with her index finger. “I’ve been _thinking_. Regina Mills has enemies, doesn’t she?”  

“Yes,” Emma says, because of course she does. She probably thinks Emma is one of them right now. And _that_ is not a road she’s walking down when she’s tipsy and heartbroken.  

Mulan leans closer, and whispers conspiratorially, “Wanna bet the lab reports turn out negative?”

Emma could cry from the sudden sense of _relief_. She chugs at her beer and signals the waiter for another.  

Emma doesn’t wanna bet on it. Emma’s known, no, _wished_ for it with everything she has. But it’s a relief to hear _Mulan_ say it out loud. Good, sensible Mulan who’s always been a better detective than Emma can ever hope to be.

“What could a lowlife like Smee have to gain from lying about the owner of MillsCorp, of all people?” She says slowly, trying to get the sluggish gears in her alcohol-soaked brain to swing into action.   

She doesn’t want to be _that_ person, grasping at straws and seeing what she wants to see because she’s so desperate to believe. There’s too much at stake here.  

“I think the real question is,” Mulan says, thoughtful, “who could possibly stand to gain from paying off a lowlife like Smee to lie about the owner of MillsCorp and drag her name through the mud?” 

“That’s a lot of people,” Emma tells her. Half of Storybrooke’s rich and famous, considering MillsCorp’s ever-expanding fortunes and rising stock prices. Cora Mills’ former allies, for certain. 

“It’s a frame job, Swan,” Mulan says, with a sense of conviction Emma feels in her bones. “Mark my words.”

  


*

  


She’s pacing and pacing in the cave, the last bits of her conversation with Mulan playing in her head:

_“When did Regina Mills come back to Storybrooke?”_

_“About eight months ago. Nine at best.”_

_“Find out who she’s screwed over. There’s your lead.”_

“Find out who she’s screwed over,” Emma mutters to herself. She’s sober and wide-awake. Wired, really, although the espresso shots she downed may have something to do with it.

Mulan’s the better detective, always has been, but Emma has this _sense_ of things sometimes. A gut feeling, if you will. And right now her gut is telling her she’s close, _very_ close to resolving this nightmare of a case and maybe cleaning up a bit of the mess she’s made, falling for what she’s now convinced is a frame job and dragging Regina’s name through the mud in the process.

“Emma Swan,” Belle says, when Emma has the system up and running. “How may I be of assistance?”

The Librarian™ is nothing if not efficient — another one of her parents’ over-indulgent gifts, after they found out about Emma’s nocturnal activities. Emma, by then, was a seasoned veteran, and they seemed thrilled about it, their daughter the _superhero_.  

She couldn’t quite fathom it then, this _generosity_ , this need of theirs to _support_ Emma when they hadn’t been there for the first sixteen years of her life. She thinks of Henry now — his smile at the breakfast table, so happy to see _both_ his mothers — and thinks she might understand some of that now. She hasn’t seen Henry in over a week, and it’s already wearing her down.

“I need you to run me through MillsCorp’s activities in the last eight months,” Emma tells her. Regina would disapprove, but then, at this point there probably isn’t much about Emma that Regina approves of to begin with. “What they’ve bought, what they’ve sold, who they’ve screwed over, how much money they’ve made, _everything_.”

It doesn’t take Belle long to have a list running. And yeah, Regina’s presence in Storybrooke _has_ made a difference, Emma thinks, skimming through reports of her bulldozing past the elderly white gentlemen at Midas Enterprises and Pendragon and Sons. There’s a lot of impotent raging, not to mention nasty references to Regina’s parentage — her father, in particular.

Gold’s name keeps coming up, though the creepy old bastard seems to be holding strong against MillsCorp’s manouevers into real estate. And wait, did Regina buy Storybrooke’s only women’s soccer team? 

Emma is, admittedly, a little distracted by the image of Regina Mills in a pair of soccer shorts along with the rest of the Storybrooke Seagulls, so much so that she thinks she’s imagining it when her phone begins to buzz insistently. 

It’s… Regina. _Calling_ _her_. 

She picks it up after a few rings, and if she sounds somewhat breathless it’s because she hasn’t heard Regina’s voice in over a week and her very life may depend on this phone call. 

“Is Henry with you?” Regina demands. Her voice is sharp, a little frantic. Which. _Oh_. 

“I haven’t seen him in a week, Regina,” Emma says gently.

There’s a long pause. Emma’s activating his tracker as they speak, though that’s probably another thing Regina doesn’t need to know about. The kid ran, _of course_ he did, because he’s nothing if not his mother’s son.

“So he _isn’t_ with you,” Regina says. Emma can hear the tension in her voice, thin and close to breaking. “Emma, I’ve looked _everywhere_. He’s somehow figured out how to disable the alarms we set up and now —” 

“He’s a smart kid,” Emma says, soothing. “Probably out and about in his cape again.” He hasn’t done it in a while, though. He’s seemed content, if still curious and nosey about the outcome of the Fairy Dust case. But that’s before his mother’s name was dragged into it, wasn’t it? 

“I don’t have anyone watching him, Emma!” Regina says, frantic. “Where are you?”

“Uh, in the cave, why—”

There’s a flare of purple smoke, and then Regina’s in front of her in her navy silk pajamas, phone still clutched in her hand. Emma blinks.

There was time when this would be perfectly ordinary. A time when Emma was proud to show off her new playground and Regina’s gentle mockery held enough affection to sustain her an entire lifetime — or so Emma thought.

She’s here now, in flesh and blood, and her eyes are red-rimmed and her hair dishevelled. Emma could, Emma _would_ hug her if she didn’t know better than to try.

“I put him to bed and I kissed him goodnight,” Regina says, drawing in a wet, shuddering breath. “He has been upset, he— You know he reads things.” And yes, Henry does, Henry probably has Google alerts set up. God, why didn’t Emma think to _ask_? She’s been wallowing in her own misery and loneliness and her _son—_

Emma thinks of his bright, bright smile at breakfast, and the lightness in her own heart. She’s tired of breaking things.   

“I was so sure he would be with you,” Regina says, sounding so, _so_ helpless. Emma _does_ hug her then, before she can entirely understand what her body is doing. She reaches for Regina and pulls her into her arms in a clumsy jerk, breathing in the soft sandalwood scent of her neck and the unsteady beat of her heart.

A pair of tentative arms come up to encircle her waist, and god, Emma has missed this, missed _her_ and this closeness. She holds Regina even closer, and lets herself breathe.

“We’ll find him,” she murmurs, brushing her lips against Regina’s temple. “I have a tracker set up—”

“You have _what_?” Regina draws back. She’s not outraged, exactly. Her arms are still around Emma’s waist.

“A tracker,” Emma says, sheepish. “In his sneakers. We were at the beach and I thought, I dunno.” She shrugs. “I thought it might come handy.”

“I don’t know why I didn’t think of that, honestly,” Regina murmurs. Her smile is almost affectionate, and it fills Emma with a buoyant sort of _hope_ , like she still has a chance to _salvage_ this, this little family of hers.

“I’m a detective,” Emma says. “And besides, he’s _ten_. He couldn’t have gone very far.”

  


*

 

In the ten minutes (give or take a few) it takes Belle to locate Henry, Regina has paced and paced and somehow mustered enough sarcasm to comment on Emma’s upkeep of the cave. Emma spots her trailing her fingers on the glass of the trophy cabinets. It’s almost like old times, except they’re no longer young and currently on the lookout for their ten-year old son.

 _Their_ son.

It's a terrifying (incredible) thought.

“He's near the docks,” Regina says, watching the blue dot that's Henry on the large screen. “Shall we?”

Emma nods. Regina's fingers come up to encircle her wrist, steady.

Poofing has never been Emma's preferred mode of transport. She feels the purple smoke envelope her and the lurching sensation in her stomach. Regina's hand on her wrist is her only anchor. Emma turns her wrist so they're palm to palm, slipping her fingers between Regina's so they're holding hands.

They land on a sidewalk, Regina holding on to her hand without a word. Emma breathes in the fish-and-chemicals smell that's ubiquitous in this part of the town. It's an awful smell, really, but it helps her settle.  

“Mom? Emma?” She hears Henry call out. “What are you guys doing here?”

They must look a sight, still in their pajamas and holding hands.   

“Henry, oh god.” Regina breaks away, rushing to Henry and holding him in a crushing embrace. “You _scared_ me,” she admonishes.

And Henry, miracle of miracles, doesn’t lash out. “Sorry, Mom,” he says. “I know we had a deal, but I had to. Gretel said —”

“Wait, Gretel?” Emma interrupts. “ _The_ Gretel? The one we’ve been looking for months now?”

“Yeah,” Henry says, like it's the most natural thing in the world. “She said she had a lead and was going to investigate, so I said I would help.”

“You _know_ Gretel?” Her eyes are probably bulging out, but Emma is not in a position to care.

“Do you remember the boy from the night we first met? Nick?” Henry tells her. “He’s Ava’s brother. I mean, that’s what she was called before she had the Fairy Dust accident. Her name is Gretel now.”

“I underestimated you, kid,” Emma says, shaking her head.

Regina looks immeasurably proud, which is at once endearing and ridiculous. “What?” Emma tells her. “It’s not like you knew what he was really up to, either.”

“I’ve always had faith in Henry’s abilities, Miss Swan,” Regina sniffs. She has an arm slung around his shoulders, like a proud mama bear. Even in the relative darkness, her face is glowing.

He tried to tell her, Emma thinks. Multiple times. All this time she’d simply thought he was a nosy, know-it-all kid, and Henry had managed to get through to the most important person of them all.

His brains are probably from Regina, but that stubborn determination to see something through is perhaps Emma as well.

“If you guys, uh, head home,” Emma says, beginning to chalk out the remaining course of action, “I can see to the rest —”

“No!” Henry says, vehement. “I _told_ you they don’t trust cops or grown-ups. Gretel _won’t_ talk to you.”

“I know, kiddo, but you’ve done your share already. I’ll alert my partner, just let us handle it from here.” Emma looks at Regina for support, but she’s already shaking her head.

“Henry is right,” Regina says slowly, earning herself a delighted smile from their son. “It stands to reason that his presence here might be necessary if you are to get your key witness to talk.” She says it as though it’s perfectly logical. Emma can’t _believe_ they’re ganging up on her now.

“Gretel went in there all by herself,” Henry echoes. “We’re wasting time!”

Regina bends down so that her eyes are level with Henry’s. “If we do this, Henry,” Regina says, serious, “will you promise to do exactly as we say? No running off. No heroics.”

“ _We_?” Emma says.

“Why, Detective, do you have other plans for the night?” Regina's eyes are very bright.

“I promise,” Henry tells them both, solemn. 

Regina presses a kiss on his forehead and draws herself up, very straight. She casts a speculative eye at Emma, and then snaps her fingers. Which. Well, Emma can't say she doesn't appreciate the fact that she's no longer in her pajamas, not to mention the sword that's strapped to her back.

Regina dresses herself with another snap of her fingers - pants and a pair of sensible shoes.

Emma thinks of the girl with the elaborate makeup and terrifying costumes. That girl is well and truly gone, and a part of Emma mourns her loss even as she is drawn inexorably to the woman she's become.

“Shall we?” Regina says. The gleam in her eyes, at least, remains the same.

  


*

 

Emma would say this is like old times, but they have a ten-year old in the lead and some of the Storybrooke PD’s best officers, Mulan included, as their back-up.

It's nothing like old times, Emma's sword notwithstanding.

Still, she can feel her lips quirk upwards every time she glances at Regina, a small fireball on her palm. She can't resist twirling her sword, and catches Regina's answering smirk, as though she knows exactly what Emma’s feeling.

Henry leads them to a vast, crumbling building — a defunct manufacturing-cum-storage unit of the sort that Storybrooke hasn't seen since the 1930s. She's fought her share of villains in places like this, including that time Regina rescued her from being fed to giant crocodiles by Captain Hook. Or the time they were both about to boiled in a vat of oil by a crazed Mad Hatter.

“Looks familiar, doesn't it?” Emma can't help whisper to Regina, who nods.

“I see the villains haven't grown any more imaginative since the last time I was in a place like this,” Regina says. 

“Was it the hourglass? Or the giant rats?”

“Neither,” Regina says. “It was King Tut.”

“Right,” Emma snorts. “You set his beard on fire.” 

“Do you guys always talk this much when you're on a mission?” Henry says, disgusted.

“Sorry, darling,” Regina says, suitably penitent.

“Gretel went in through here,” he says, mollified. He points at a large iron gate. Someone’s bent the iron rods, mangled like a child crumples a piece of paper. “But she hasn't replied to my texts after that.”

“There's only one way to find out,” Emma says, stepping inside.

  
  


They walk towards the dilapidated building in silence, following Henry's lead. It's quiet — a little _too_ quiet. Emma is glad Mulan is right behind them, surrounding the whole area as they speak.

“Do you see that?” Regina breaks the silence, pointing a finger at the fading logo of a — pirate skull? — painted on the crumbling bricks. Emma can make out the word ‘M’ along with it.

“Isn't that —” 

“Milah Trent’s old logo? Yes,” Regina says.

Milah Gold, née Trent, has been dead for over two decades now. Poisoned by her own husband, or so the story went. Stillwaters went bust even before that. 

Emma looks at Regina and knows, just _knows_ what's on her mind. “I'll be surprised if you have any evidence,” Regina says mildly. 

This isn't the time for apologies, but Emma says so anyway, whispers a brief _I'm sorry_ that she hopes doesn't ring false. There'll be more time for a conversation — if Regina allows it — later.

  
  


The first set of guards they run into are, frankly, amateurs, judging by the way the two men fold with a couple of well-placed punches.

“This way,” Henry says, leading them into a dark corridor. He has a blueprint of the premises — Regina's son through and through — where he's marked three possible areas of interest in red. “Gretel thinks this is where they stockpile most of the stuff.”

Emma barely has time to react before she feels herself being lifted up like a ragdoll and _flung_ away. Her elbow slams against the wall, and Emma can't help the cry of sudden pain that leaves her mouth.

“Emma?” she hears Henry say.

“Behind me, Henry,” says Regina. Right. Regina's _here_.  

It's a kid — a girl, from the looks of it, her face a distorted mask. She has two extra hands, her fists the size of Henry's head.

“Regina, it's Fairy Dust,” Emma shouts. “Don’t hurt her.”

“I'm well aware,” Regina grits out. A steady stream of ice emerges out of her hands, and the kid is soon an oddly-shaped icicle that Henry stares at in utter fascination.

“You didn't even need a freeze gun, _wow_ ,” Henry says. He’s thrilled by his mother’s exploits, Emma can tell. It warms her up from the inside in ways she doesn’t have words to express.

“You haven't seen anything yet, kid,” she says.

Regina offers her a hand that Emma gladly takes, rising to her feet. She shivers only slightly when warm fingers ghost her cheek and her lips in a wordless gesture of comfort.

  
  


The first of Henry’s red-marked areas turns out to be a set of empty, decrepit reservoirs, nothing more.

Emma can sense Henry’s agitation. He’s young, _too_ young to be out here like this. She looks at Regina, who seems to sense it too — because of course, she knows him best — and turns to face him with a smile. “Which way do you suggest we go next, sweetheart?” she says, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder.  

Henry bites his lip, scowling at the blueprints. “This one,” he says, pointing at another area marked in red. “I think this is where she went.”

There are more interruptions on the way, more kids powered up  on Fairy Dust. Regina keeps up a steady stream of ice, without breaking into a sweat even once. It’s impressive coming from someone who’s been effectively retired from hero gig for over a decade now.

“I’m beginning to think you were right, kid,” Emma says, fighting off what has to be the fifth attacker in as many minutes. She's fast — bouncing off walls, literally, turning complicated somersaults — too fast for Regina to have a steady aim. “No, stay back. You do as we say, remember?” 

Henry steps back, grumbling, while Emma knocks the girl out with the hilt of her sword. For a moment she's worried about hitting _too_ hard, but she figures the kid's powered up enough to survive a blow from Emma. Regina steps in to finish the job, with another stream of ice.

“Nice work, moms,” Henry says. 

He says it without second thought — _moms_ — like Emma's included in this family unit of his.  

Emma didn't ask for this, didn't want Cora’s torture or the experiments without her consent. _Their_ consent, because Cora screwed her own daughter over with as much delight. But all Cora wanted was a soldier she could manufacture and program at will. Emma doesn't think she anticipated who Henry would become — this brave little boy who is a _person_ in his own right. 

There's no doubt as to why Regina made the choice that she did, taking Henry home and raising him, Cora's intentions be damned. Emma looks at him now and knows that she wouldn't trade this for anything, _anything_ at all.

  
  


Gretel is strapped to a metal gurney, immobile. There are a pair of leather cuffs clasped to her wrists. 

Regina grows agitated at the sight of the cuffs, enough to rush forward and tug at them until they’re off her wrists. Gretel does not wake.

“Is she okay?” Henry says in a panicked whisper. 

The girl isn't much older than the brother she remembers meeting — fifteen, sixteen at very best. Her dirty blonde hair frames her face, but doesn't quite hide the long scar that covers an entire cheek and extends all the way down to her neck. It's almost difficult to believe that _this_ is the girl they have been looking for for the last few months, the girl who might hold the key to getting hold of the kingpins behind this nexus.

“The cuffs are designed to restrain her abilities,” Regina says, reassuring. “Without them, she should be back to herself in no time.”

It's quiet. _Too_ quiet. They're in the middle of a vast and empty room, one that probably held machinery when this was a functional manufacturing unit. It's inconceivable that they've simply been allowed to walk in, which could only mean that it's —

“A trap,” she says, feeling extremely foolish the net descends on the three of them.

  


*

 

“We meet again, my lady Swan! _And_ my queen, what pleasure!” Captain Hook’s voice echoes in the empty room. “I had hoped we would meet under more pleasant circumstances, but alas, it was not to be.” He waggles his eyebrow suggestively. Emma could wring his neck.

That is, as soon as they get out of their current position, which is: bundled together in a massive net that hangs a few feet above ground. Regina has her arms around Henry, and her shoulder is jammed uncomfortably against Emma’s face.

“ _Him? Again?_ ” Regina stage whispers, sounding more annoyed than concerned, in spite of their current state of captivity.

“I wouldn’t try and use that sword if I were you, Swan,” Hook says, pointing his gun straight at Henry. Emma takes her hand off her sword, making a show of waving at him.

He's a joke, but an armed one. Emma isn't taking any risks as far as Henry's safety is concerned. 

“My apologies for the inconvenience, ladies,” Hook says with a mocking bow. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I’ll have to get back to work. I intend to get paid handsomely tonight.”

“The last time we met, at the Charity Ball,” Emma says slowly. “Did you not get paid? For your services, I mean. You said the Crocodile owed you money.”

“The perils of the job,” Hook says with a shrug. “Some employers tend to be… _miserly_. All they need is a push.”

“I’m sorry if we got in the way,” Emma calls out, enjoying the way he scowls at her, no doubt reminded of the punch in his face.

  
  
  


More people are beginning to filter in, Emma notes, hired lowlifes of various shapes and sizes. Some of them couldn't be older than Gretel, or any of the kids they knocked out on the way. Hook has urgent, whispered conversations with some of them, gun still trained in Henry's direction. Gretel lies unmoving on the gurney.

It's beginning to fall in place, now. Hook's just the sort of unscrupulous mercenary to hire if there's shipments to be made — massive shipments, by the looks of it. He might be a joke, but one with his own ship, and a history of successful trafficking of drugs _and_ children over the years.

He isn't the one producing the drugs, of course, but Emma's willing to bet that it can be traced back to the activities of a certain prominent businessman slash actual piece of scum. The same scum who happens to have considerable hold over Hook, and a deep interest in running MillsCorp to the ground. 

Mulan should be in position by now. Emma settles back against Regina, despite the discomfort of the stupid net, and waits. 

It doesn't take long.

 

 

At the first sound of gunshots, Regina springs to action. The net disappears with a wave of her hand and Emma finds herself floating down, landing on her feet. There’s a brilliant purple shield around the three of them, Hook’s bullets bouncing off it as though made of ineffectual rubber.

“Bloody hell,” he swears, dropping his gun and making a dash for it. He doesn’t get very far,  because there’s Gretel springing up like a wounded tigress, and knocking him out with superhuman strength.

  


*

  


“It was the ship,” Mulan confirms, smiling wider than she has in months. “Ali's taking inventory right now. I'd say there's at least twenty tons of the stuff, maybe even more.”

Emma lets out a long whistle. Twenty tons is a _lot_.

She imagines this will drag out much longer — Gold isn't an easy suspect to pin down, by any means. But they've done this, at least, after months of _nothing_. “Well done, Detective Hua,” Emma says, raising her hand for a high-five.

“Right back at you, Detective Swan,” Mulan says.

  
  


She spots Regina and Henry huddled together in a bench on the sidewalk. She'd cleared them to go the first thing; had, in fact, expected them to have left for home by now.

As it turns out, Henry is fast asleep, burrowed into Regina's side. He looks tiny and impossibly fragile.

“He wanted to stay up and talk to you,” Regina says, brushing locks of hair away from his forehead. “He was tired.” Emma's foolish heart _stops_ at the sight, the sheer tenderness of the gesture enough to have her knees go weak.

She makes a vow to herself, then, one she knows she'll die honoring. She swears to protect, and to preserve the mother and son duo in front of her — a _family_ in spite of the odds placed against them.

“He's had quite the evening,” Emma says.

Regina looks up at Emma, her gaze intense. “Come with us,” she says.

“You mean, like, to your house?” Emma says, a little stupid. The lack of sleep is beginning to catch up with her.

“You can tuck him in,” Regina says simply, reaching for Emma's hand with her own.

  
  


Henry doesn't wake when Regina deposits him in his bed, or when she changes him into his nightclothes with a snap of her fingers. Emma kisses him on his forehead, her heart beating an uneven rhythm in her ribcage.

“The second time tonight,” Regina says, with a gentle eye-roll. “If he runs off again, he’s staying outside.”

It's the most _mom_ thing she's heard Regina say so far. The fact that she might be part of this, that she — _Emma Swan_ — may have something to contribute here, is enough to make her nervous all over again.

“I, I wanted to apologize,” she tells Regina as they step into the corridor, shutting the door to Henry’s bedroom quietly behind them. Her palms are beginning to sweat.

Emma keeps her voice low, though Henry will probably sleep through an earthquake right now. “I wanted to say that I’m sorry for dragging you into that mess.”

“I may have lost my temper earlier than I’d intended to,” Regina says with a rueful smile. “You tried to tell me, I think.”

“I'm sorry nonetheless,” Emma says, reaching for her hand. She runs a thumb over Regina’s knuckles, pressing soft kisses on each knuckle, one by one.   

“I’m going to sue anyone who wrote _anything_ about the Evil Queen,” Regina says brightly. “Even a single tweet.” Emma throws back her head and laughs, feeling something warm unfurl in her chest.  

“I will say this only once, and you are _not_ to mention this in front of our son at any point,” Regina tells her, her smile growing wider, “but I had fun today.”

“So did I,” Emma says, feeling her own smile grow wider in response. 

What had started as a panic-induced ‘find Henry’ mission ended up being a family outing of sorts. If they’re the sort of family that catches drug-peddling villains in their outings together, that is. Emma finds that she doesn’t mind, and she doesn’t think Regina does, either, judging by the way she pulls her close and kisses her and kisses her.  

  
  
*


	6. Epilogue

6.

 

_“I used to ferry news. Some peddling, here and there,” Ms. Zimmer shrugs. “Fairy Dust changed everything.”_

_The drug called ‘Fairy Dust’ has been wreaking havoc on the streets of Storybrooke for months now. Known for its temporary enhancement of meta-human abilities, the victims of the drug have been mostly young, often from the poorest quarters of the city. Ms. Zimmer, who was once addicted to the drug, says it made her feel ‘powerful’._

_“But crashing back to reality, man,_ _that's way worse,” she shakes her head. “You knew you had to get your hands on more. You weren’t_ **_living_ ** _until you had the damn thing [Fairy Dust] in your blood.”_

_So far, 26 teenagers have been admitted to the White Juvenile Rehabilitation Centre, and Ms. Zimmer seems to suggest that these numbers are merely the tip of the iceberg. Her own case, she says, is a ‘freak accident’, leading to the permanent enhancement of meta-human abilities. There have been no other documented instances of permanent enhancement of abilities owing to Fairy Dust._

_“I don’t like this shit,” Ms. Zimmer says, candid. “I just wanna be myself, ya know? Normal. I want my brother to look at me and not be afraid.” The ‘freak accident’ that gave her her abilities also left her with a permanent scar on her face. “But I’m stuck with it now, and I thought, might as well use it for something good,” she shrugs._

_‘Gretel’ was born out of this desire to do ‘something good’ — to put those responsible for its distribution behind bars._

_“They’re hurting kids,” Ms. Zimmer says, visibly angry. “It’s not right.”_  

_With the arrest of the villain who goes by the name Captain Hook, and five of his associates, and the confiscation of nearly 20 tons of the drug, it is believed that the Storybrooke PD has made significant inroads into the solving the case._

_“You’ve got the full haul, yeah,” shrugs Ms. Zimmer. “But there’s gotta to be someone paying for this shit. Someone far smarter, and a lot more powerful.”_  

_Her words of caution are important, and echoed by Detective Hua Mulan of the Storybrooke PD, who is a lead detective in the investigation._

_“We’re working on some leads, yeah,” Detective Hua says. “You’ll hear of it when we have something concrete.”_

_After the initial embarrassment with MillsCorp — which has now filed a $5 million defamation suit against Commissioner David Nolan of the Storybrooke PD — the city police department cannot afford any further missteps on the matter._

 

“Wait, you’re still suing my father?” Emma says, putting the paper down and fixing Regina with a glare. “I thought he apologized.” 

David did, in fact, apologize profusely. In person, no less. There was a photo-op with him looking sheepish and Regina triumphant, announcing a partnership between MillsCorp and the city police for a better, safer Storybrooke. He also donated a sizeable sum in his personal capacity to the Henry Mills Charitable Trust as a gesture of goodwill.

Not enough, apparently, to placate Regina, who has now spent weeks gleefully suing _anyone_ who breathed a word on the Evil Queen in the course of the Fairy Dust fiasco. Between Regina’s lawsuit and Gold’s lawyers throwing up every possible obstacle to stall their investigation, David’s having a particularly hard time of late.   

“It’s a matter of principle, Miss Swan,” Regina sniffs, daintily sipping on her coffee. “MillsCorp has a reputation to uphold.” It’s the sort of the ‘Miss Swan’ that comes with a sultry smile, and a look with enough heat to have Emma choke on her toast. 

“Ew,” Henry says, hunched over his plate. “Can you two  _not_ flirt when I'm _eating_ , please? It's gross.”

“You’re the one who dragged me here, kiddo,” Emma says with a shrug. “Now you gotta deal.” She reaches out to muss his hair, still marvelling at the fact that she  _can_. Later, she'll worry about things like _custody_ (yikes) and  _telling her parents_ (double yikes), but this right here, now, is everything Emma's ever wanted. 

“He did,” Regina says. “And we’re all grateful to him for it.” Her eyes are very soft.

 

***

 

Emma Swan is having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

Her costume’s ripped in three different places, and she’s currently covered head to toe in foul-smelling green goo. To top it all, the stupid creature keeps coming at her, despite the multiple diversionary tactics she’s attempted so far. Fire’s the only thing that seems to terrify it, but Emma’s currently out of everything but a matchbox, and matchsticks she keeps frantically lighting to keep the creature at bay. She'll run out of them soon enough.

When she stitched up this costume for herself, she’d hoped she’d have a more heroic death than ending up in the belly of an ugly, overgrown alligator, that too in a gutter somewhere. 

She doesn’t expect the burst of purple smoke, or the extraordinary figure who comes to stand in front of her. “Wait, you’re the Evil Queen,” she gapes. “Right?”

“Maybe I am,” the girl says. And she’s a girl all right, not a lot older than Emma. “What’s it to you?”   

“Nothing, I —”

“Be quiet.” The girl lets out a steady stream of fire from her palms, until the creature disintegrates.

“Thanks,” Emma says, because it would be rude not to. She did just save her life.

“You smell bad,” the girl tells her, wrinkling her nose. “You should go take a shower.”

Well.  

The girl disappears in another puff of purple smoke, before Emma can get a word in edgewise. Emma decides she _loathes_ her.

 

*** 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading. <333 you guys made supernova a fun, worthwhile experience!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [All These Days [ ART ]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8797846) by [mippippippi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mippippippi/pseuds/mippippippi)




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